No Way To Treat A Lady
by wearecrossroads
Summary: Note: This story is an abandoned WIP. Future!fic. Santana is forced to move in with Quinn when sabotage leads to sabotage.
1. Chapter 1

Serving unattractive New Yorkers coffee was not Santana's idea of a dream job when she was in pigtails and dancing around her bedroom to Missy Elliot (yeah, she worked it, even at six). She's not unfamiliar with hating things, and this job she despises even on the good days when she doesn't have to make 130 degree hot chocolate for bratty city ankle-biters. But, it has its perks.

One: people of all colors, jeans sizes, and creeds hit on her. All. Day. Long. It does excellent things for her self esteem, and Santana didn't even think she needed it. And maybe the slice of tummy peeking out from underneath her work polo helps. She doesn't think too hard on it—she can't help it that she has an unbelievably long torso and the skin of a golden god. This is what she said to her harried-ass manager when he dared to complain about her exposed midriff:

"It's genetics, and the guys and gals up in this joint? They _loves_ it."

He frowned and threatened her job, but Santana's positively sure he keeps her around because of pipe dreams that she'll one day invite him to a lezzified threesome. Dream on, cowboy, hell to the no, et cetera.

And two: the spectacle that is Quinn Fabray every goddamn day. Today, for example, Quinn walks into Santana's store and all the way to the counter without once looking up from her fancy phone. Santana braces her hands on the countertop.

"My favorite Wall Street megalomaniac," she greets. "Is that your official job title now? I really never know."

Quinn takes her time looking up from her screen and when she does, she smiles loftily.

"Hello, Santana. It's great to see you too. The grown-ups call me a financial associate, actually. You know what you should really do? Put your English degree away and make my latte," Quinn says, all in one big, bitchy breath.

Santana might be hurt if she were Rachel Berry, or in preschool. So yeah, big deal, she settles for a shitty paycheck and her padre foots her part-time degree just so that she can perform at dodgy jazz dives for creepy, middle-aged singles. At least she's following her dream. Santana's brow furrows. Disgusting. She sounds more like schnozzleBerry every day. She needs to stop reading the phony inspirational text messages that girl keeps sending her.

"Keep on thinking you're holier than me, Jesus camp," she says to Quinn as she reaches for a pitcher, "but let me remind you that your caffeine-fueled fate is in my hands."

Quinn stares her down with her unnerving dead eyes. "Amazing. I'm always impressed that you manage to be just as hostile at six in the morning, Santana."

The jab Santana's fine with. Flattered about, really. But being so rudely reminded of this ungodly hour? For that, Quinn gets one less shot of espresso in her precious latte. Three is outrageous, anyway, and Santana knows from experience (read, being around Quinn all keyed up and obnoxious at the end of the day) that Quinn tops up at least a few times at work. Santana's doing both of them a favor. She finishes adding in the foam and goes over to the back counter.

"Here, Bill Gates, get your fix on."

"Wrong industry," Quinn corrects and grabs her drink. She methodically unlids the cup and stirs in a massive amount of sugar.

Santana shrugs noncommittally. "Whatev. So, is it more of the same on the agenda today? More money conning, life ruining, spirit breaking…"

Quinn laughs suddenly and brightly, so incongruent to her general bitchiness that Santana can't help but stare appreciatively.

"Santana, I don't work for the _mob_."

Santana waves her hand. Quinn, the little vixen, totally would. "Don't pretend you weren't an absolute ball buster all through high school and college."

"Don't pretend _you_ weren't" Quinn retorts. She takes a long sip of her drink and looks pleased.

Santana smirks. She goes over to refill creamers so that her brownnosing coworkers don't bitch her out again. Those biddies are just jealous she gets daily visits from this smokin' blonde.

"All over 'em," she says to said hottie, "just as long as I don't have to make actual physical contact."

Quinn's nose scrunches up. "Ugh."

"See, you understand me," Santana says, and that fills up her penis talk quota for the week, thanks.

Instead of responding, Quinn tucks her phone into her purse.

"As much as I enjoy our oddly palatable bonding, I have to run. But I need a tiny favor," she says, leaning over the counter all business-like. It feels to Santana like she's in a board room and Quinn is about to slit her throat, Shark Tank style. Frankly, it yanks her chain a little bit. Still, she isn't just plain _easy_:

"It's going to cost you," she retorts immediately.

"Obviously," Quinn rolls her eyes. Her voice drops a few decibels so that Santana has to move closer to hear, "we can discuss the terms later, but I need you to introduce me to Feinstein if he comes in at his usual time today."

Santana purses her lips. She dreaded this day, mainly because the man is a slimy piece of shit. Santana's convinced he eats children for breakfast. Once, she caught his rape eyes connecting with her luscious behind and nearly went all Lima Heights on his ass. The only reason she pretends to make pleasant with him is because he owns the store, and the building it's in, and probably the building next door to that. The thought of Quinn sucking up to the douchenozzle as per her usual makes Santana sick.

Quinn tugs her sleeve, once and hard.

"Watch yourself, Fabray," Santana glares, fixing her shirt collar.

"Listen, I know you think he's the antichrist," Quinn whispers, "but he's a bigwig and I need to start networking. If I secure a single portfolio for him, I make my bosses happy, and if I do that, I'm twenty steps closer to the promotion."

Vom. 'The Promotion' is the buzzword all up in their conversations, and probably Quinn's wet dreams (undoubtedly tepid-as-hell, when Auntie Tana isn't on her mind). Santana's fucking sick of hearing about it.

"Just an introduction, okay? No frills about it," Quinn presses, her expression hopeful. The lack of general self-respect Quinn has when it comes to her work is downright pathetic.

"Fine," Santana begrudges, "but only because if I have to see you actually beg, I may literally hurl. But get your ass over here before one. I have class uptown after. And please refrain from sucking his dick, metaphorical or otherwise. Remember, Q, what would Jesus do or whatever."

"Absolutely context-inappropriate advice, as usual, but thank you," Quinn grins and pulls away. "See you at lunch?" She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and adjusts her blazer.

Santana hums. "Did I mention that you look dashingly handsome this morning?" she asks. "Like the President. Of my pants."

"Always the highlight of my day, Santana," Quinn intones.

Santana cocks her head and smiles sweetly. "Likewise."

* * *

><p>Quinn is, of course, annoyingly punctual that afternoon. Santana is about to bounce early to avoid this inevitable clusterfuck when Quinn breezes in, just as she's pulling on her jacket.<p>

"Christ, Fabray."

"Made it," Quinn breathes, as if she's anything but ten hours early. She raises an eyebrow at Santana's jacket. "Going somewhere? Were you going to bail on me?"

"No, it's cold up in here," Santana protests. "Brr," she adds half-assedly.

Quinn fixes her with a death glare worthy of a Dateline special. Santana prides herself on being generally unflappable, but Quinn is positively scary like this. In a sexy, flesh-eating undead sort of way. The fact that this does anything for Santana's libido is terrifying in itself. She shakes the thought from her head.

"Calm your nips," she says to Quinn and nods toward the entrance. "Your man just walked in."

Quinn turns around to see for herself and her expression immediately goes from murderous to fake-ass-bitch.

"Don't call him that," she hisses through her affected smile.

"You're right, you're right. You're way too self-involved to take ownership of another person," Santana says. She waves to Feinstein. He looks confused for a second and rightly so. On days when Santana is her normal self, thank you very much, she hardly offers a glance in his direction.

Feinstein comes over to the counter and takes a seat at a stool, flashing Santana with his wall of overly whitened teeth. "Lopez, nice surprise. Looking _great_ as always," he says, glancing up and down her getup. She's in her uniform. Now granted, her tits look spectacular in any state of dress (or undress), but Feinstein's pushing it.

Santana doesn't understand how he can be so oily. Or how his face is so naturally obnoxious-he's a typical industry child, in his mid-thirties, born into his wealth and thinking he's the shit when all he has to show for it is too much hair gel and ill-fitting suit pants. Maybe he'd look decent under that dense fog of cologne and douche. Santana doesn't know and her lady parts certainly don't care.

She tries to pass her grimace off as a smile but probably only succeeds in looking like Finn Hudson.

"Hello, Mr. Feinstein, good to see you."

"Fix me a double shot, why don't you," Feinstein says. "You know how I like it."

Just because he's a jerk, Santana decides she'd rather not. Her threshold for bullshit is so low it's at zero.

"You know, I would, but I'm technically off the clock," she says pseudo-apologetically, pointing at her loosened hair. She catches Quinn staring at her with big eyes, as though she's wondering where Santana gets the nerve. Oh, Santana's got the nerve. She was born with it.

Feinstein frowns. He probably can't fathom the concept of _no_ coming from a girl. Auntie Tana is forever a pioneer, imparting wisdom to all.

Before he can respond, though, another barista comes up and slips a mug in front of him, effectively and rudely ending Santana's life lesson of the day.

"Your usual, Mr. Feinstein. I noticed that you came in, so I went ahead and made it for you. I hope that's okay," the girl titters.

"Thanks, Laura, you're wonderful," Feinstein responds, all self-satisfied.

"So nice," Santana says indulgently to the little ass-kisser. Laura smiles nervously at both of them and skedaddles before Santana can say anything else. Smart girl.

Feinstein chuckles and stirs his coffee. "You are something else, Lopez."

Truth. It's probably the one thing he's ever been right about.

"I keeps it real," Santana shrugs. Speaking of which, she's ready to get this show on the road. She looks over at Quinn, who by now is positively pissing herself in anticipation, looking back and forth between the two of them. Right as Santana's about to speak, though, Feinstein pipes up again:

"Hey, you're a singer, aren't you?"

Santana's brow furrows. "Yeah, guess you could call me that."

Feinstein leans over the counter and his tie digs into his stubbly neck unattractively. "That's great," he says with about zero sincerity. "Where do you perform?"

"I have this gig down in Brooklyn some nights. Super glam," Santana says shortly. She's not interested in hashing out her less than fabulous life story with Trump, Jr. here, and doesn't know where he's going with this.

"Well, I'd like to have a listen sometime," he says, sipping his drink. "You know, I have a friend who has part ownership in some bars right here in Manhattan."

Oh, he's going straight for her pants. The man is shameless. Santana's about to say something that may end her job when Quinn opens her big mouth.

"She's amazing. You really should hear her sing," she pipes up, smiling. Meddlesome ho.

Feinstein chuckles and turns to Quinn. "Is that so?"

"Santana's the best singer I know, hands down," Quinn nods and actually lowers her hands as she says it, the dork. And Quinn may just be fronting for appearance's sake, but Santana can't help but preen a little. _Best_ singer you know, huh, Fabray? She now has ammunition against both Quinn _and_ Jewish Furby.

"Looks like you've got fans," Feinstein says to her. "Does your friend have a name?"

Santana would like to say no and get lost, thank you, but she's still high off the compliment, so she plays nice.

"This is Quinn Fabray-finance extraordinaire to the Wall Street stars. Quinn, Brad Feinstein," Santana points between them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Quinn says in the sugariest voice Santana's ever heard from her, sticking out her hand.

"The pleasure is mine," Feinstein returns the handshake. And he's looking very much attentively, and appreciatively, at Quinn.

Santana frowns. Hey, Fugstein, mitts off. She refuses to watch this phony love story unfold without throwing in some interference.

"I'd be careful, though," she adds. "Quinn's a bit of a shark. Has been since the day her mama made her."

Feinstein barks out a surprised laugh and looks back at Quinn. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Santana continues. "I speak from experience-this girl is only friendly for your money."

Quinn blinks and laughs nervously, her face paling. "She... she's just joking."

"No, I always appreciate a bit of honesty," Feinstein smiles.

"Like I said, keepin' it real," Santana says, and notices that Quinn's face has by now turned three different shades of white. It's more color on the girl than she's seen in a while, but it reminds her that Quinn is actually undead and may kill her.

She thinks it's probably smartest to peace out before she gets throttled by Zombie Barbie.

"Well, as much as I'd love to hang," Santana says, reaching for her purse. "I gots to go. Class soon and all-Milton won't learn itself."

Feinstein's face is parked somewhere between amused and befuddled, like he still hasn't caught on to the joke. "Enjoy...?"

Santana waves at them both and takes off.

She makes it all but halfway down the block before she gets stopped in her tracks and jerked back around roughly.

"Fucking ow!"

"What the hell, Santana!" Quinn tugs her arm again.

Santana wrenches herself away irritatedly. "Ow! Stop with the manhandling. Have you lost your damn mind?" she asks, rubbing her abused appendage.

"Have you?" Quinn yells. "How could you humiliate me like that?"

Quinn's crazy eyes are all glazed and big and it makes Santana feel this annoying combination of angry and uncomfortable, because she cannot with the lady tears.

"Like what?" she asks.

"_She's friendly for your money_? On what planet is that an acceptable thing to say about anyone?" Quinn throws her hands up and nearly puts out Santana's eye.

"Oh sweet lord, Q. Hit the brakes and quit being so telenovela up in here. I was just protecting you from that miserable scumbag of a man. So sue me."

Santana should probably retract that statement because Quinn is a bastard and may _actually_ sue her.

But Quinn just gives a little disbelieving laugh and looks away. "I honestly can't believe how terrible of a human being you are, Santana," she says. "I asked you for one favor and you had to throw me under the bus. Have you ever considered that maybe you're the miserable scumbag I need protection from?"

Santana is slightly taken aback. Okay, that stung a little. Even her ice-cold bitch heart has its tepid spots.

"Whatever," she protests. "The guy is as twisted as your little panties are right now. He probably liked it."

"That doesn't make it okay!" Quinn shrieks.

Santana winces.

"And that stuff about his club owner friend?" Quinn keeps going. Santana swears she's going to have a massive headache by the end of today. "That could've been a real opportunity and you outright ignored it. You need to swallow that gigantic pride of yours if you ever want to succeed in this city."

Okay, Santana can handle the bitching and moaning, but she cannot and will not tolerate self-important advice. She grabs the front of Quinn's dress and tugs until they're almost nose to nose.

"Listen up, blondie," she says. "I would rather sweep Berry's Oscar basement lounge for the rest of my life than suck dick to get places the way you do."

Quinn laughs incredulously and shoves at Santana's arms. "You're unbelievable. Stop accusing me of that. And how do you even know that's what he meant? It sounded harmless to me."

"Oh please," Santana scoffs. "Were you even listening? Why the fuck else would he be nice to some lowly, asshole barista from nowhere, USA?"

"Santana," Quinn says, finally tugging herself free, her short hair starting to make an escape from its bobby pins. "When are you going to get it through your thick skull that we're in the real world now, and daddy's money can only get you so far. And just to make things clear, _not everyone _wants to have sex with you."

Quinn screams the last part, then screams "ugh!", then she stalks down the street away from Santana.


	2. Chapter 2

It's later that night and Santana finds herself lounging on Rachel's couch, nursing a strong drink and contemplating what ever compelled her to show up to this snooty-ass Broadway extravaganza of doom. Probably the food. Which wasn't even worth it because Berry made them eat solely insubstantial finger foods to protect her china plates.

And just to top off the general shittiness of being in the vicinity of so many Rachel-types, Quinn keeps glowering at her from across the room, then looking away when Santana catches her.

"Real mature, Fabray," she calls from the couch the next time this happens, and once she has more Jameson in her system.

Quinn rolls her eyes and turns back to her conversation with some random understudy. Santana scoffs. If Quinn's going to be avoiding this hot mamacita, she should at least do it for a principal cast member. And anyway, Santana has no idea why Quinn is here. It's a school night—isn't the nerd usually tucked in before nightfall?

Just then, crazy plate lady stomps over and stands way too close to Santana's bubble of personal space, or as she likes to refer to it, get near me and I will slash you.

"Santana, people are staring," Rachel says to her in a stage whisper that Santana supposes is meant to be discreet.

"Not a revolutionary concept," she mumbles into her drink. "Have you seen this face?" she asks, gesturing in the general direction of her blessed face.

The psychotic wench grabs Santana's cup from her hands right as she's about to take another drink and _sniffs_ at it, the weirdo.

"Where did you get this?" Rachel asks murderously.

Santana gives her a dirty look and snatches her cup back. "This dealer down in Prospect Park," she says, and Rachel looks like she might actually believe her for a second.

"Oh, calm your nonexistent ass down, shortstack," Santana says. "It's whiskey, not oxycotton. Now if you'll excuse me, I gots to get my drink on."

Unfortunately for her and the rest of humanity, Berry is a prying tramp and doesn't understand the concept of leaving people alone.

"This situation is very upsetting to me, Santana," Rachel whispers, sitting down next to her. "While I understand that there are certain _tensions_ between you and Quinn that have caused you to have a long but recurring history of conflict, not unlike that of Eric Clapton and George Harrison or... or the Jets and the Sharks," she says, absurdly. "It behooves me to make sure that my friends are civil to one another. It's damaging to my well-being as a person and a performer to be caught in the middle of a dispute between my two best friends-"

"Okay, hold up, Dr. Phil," Santana cuts in, shaking her head irritatedly. Listening to Rachel screech is making her stomach feel like it did that one time at McKinley when Rachel made them drink purple drank and she vommed all over the stage. "In what universe are you and I best friends? Actually, don't answer that. If you don't shut your trap right now, I'm going to barf all over your precious designer couch."

Rachel looks horrified in that contrived, overreactive way of hers. "Fine," she says. "Continue to wallow here in your misery, Santana, but I'm taking this," she grabs the drink, ignoring Santana's "hey!" of protest. "Hard liquors are terribly unclassy, and I don't want it to impair your judgment should the need to use it arise."

"Berry, I'm judging you perfectly capably right now," Santana says, making a show of looking her up and down. It doesn't last very long because the freak of nature is about five inches tall. Rather than respond, though, Rachel huffs and stomps her little feet away, Santana's drink in hand and her ridiculous polka dot dress billowing behind her.

Ugh. Santana folds her arms across her chest and glowers at nobody in particular, or maybe everyone. This party fucking blows. Even Blaine and Kurt, the only other people here she'd bother to give two seconds of her time, are sequestered in a corner whispering into each other's ears and practically bumping uglies. The two of them have been sickening to look at ever since Blaine finally lost the rest of his spine and proposed to Kurt.

If only Britt were back in town. They would have ditched this obnoxious snoozefest and partied down in their own badass (and superior) style a long time ago. But Santana's rockin' soulmate is off touring the world and all she left her with was that atrocious obese cat. Santana and Lord Tubbington have a long history of conflict too, primarily fueled by jealousy. Their relationship is strained at best.

She feels a buzzing somewhere on her person and has to twist around on the couch to get her phone out of her back pocket. It's a struggle. Jeans this tight, though they gloriously frame her ass, were not meant to be mixed with alcohol. Santana gets her phone right side up, reads the "Ryan M." that's lighting up the screen, and groans.

This day just cannot get any better-she refuses.

"Ryan M." is her irritating, overbearing landlord and she's a week behind on her rent again. Which is really only like three days after the grace period, so Santana doesn't get why he has to be annoying about it. She's tempted to ignore the call, but the dude is relentless. Once, he called her five times in a row. Just hung up and redialed _five times_.

She presses the 'call' button and stands up, heading to the kitchen to find something that will soothe her migraine. "Isn't it a little late to be pestering unassuming tenants?" she says into the receiver as way of greeting.

"Yes, if they actually answered their phones at reasonable hours," Ryan responds. He sounds even crankier than usual, which must be a feat of the human voice.

"I'm a busy girl," Santana says, swinging open the fridge door. "Listen, Ryan, my rent check is in the mail so you can cool your uptight self down and go about your merry way. No need to hound me."

"Besides the fact that I know you're blatantly lying, Santana, I'm not calling about your perpetually late rent payments."

Santana frowns. "Then what?" she asks and reaches for the aspirin bottle that's wedged behind a tub of vegan butter.

"I received an interesting phone call today," Ryan says, "from a woman who claimed to be very concerned about the well-being of some _cat_ who is supposedly living in your apartment. She said that she was worried the animal would die of heat stroke due to the lack of air conditioning. I thought the whole thing was very alarming, not because I care about the stupid cat's welfare, but because no where on your lease agreement does it say you're permitted to have a pet on the premises."

Santana's hand freezes as she's reaching for a glass from the cabinet. For the second time that day, her unflappable demeanor is challenged. She's too hardened to tolerate this racing heartbeat bullshit.

"No idea what you're talking about," she says immediately.

"Give it up, Lopez. Your enormous cat. The one that's sitting in your apartment right now."

"You can't prove that," Santana says.

"Well, here's a revelation for you," Ryan says. "I can and just did."

Excuse him. "You went into the apartment?" Santana asks, about to throw down.

Ryan laughs, his voice particularly obnoxious over the phone. "Can I remind you that I'm the owner of the property and can therefore enter it whenever I want? Not that I needed to. I _saw_ that honking thing from the window," he corrects.

Goddammit, Tubbs. Santana pinches the bridge of her nose and curses the cat's underactive thyroid.

"So I discussed this with my partner and we've decided," Ryan continues. "This is the last straw. You've been continually late on rent for the last six months, you're outrageously rude every time I try to contact you, and now I find out that you're keeping a pet illegally."

Wait. Hold up. "It was temporary," Santana says. "My best friend's out of town and she needed someone to look after the damn animal. I don't even like the thing. I'll get rid of him-"

"Santana, let me spell this out for you," Ryan interrupts. "You're being evicted. You have 48 hours to get yourself, your things, and that cat, whoever it belongs to, out of the apartment."

"_Excuse me_? There is no way," she starts, but then Ryan goes and breaks one of the seven cardinal rules of keeping company with Santana Lopez. The first is to maintain a good credit score. The fifth? _Never hang up on her_.

She stares in mortification at her home screen until it turns black and then she slams it onto the counter with a growl of anger. Evicted? How dare he? Santana is going to lawyer up on his ass and-

"Bad news?" says a silky voice from behind her.

Santana turns around to find Quinn leaning against a wall of cabinets, arms crossed and looking for all the world like she just won the stock market.

"Say what?"

"I don't know," Quinn responds. "Sounds to me like Lord Tubbington is unwelcome."

What is this bitch on? Hang on. Santana frowns at Quinn's response and the innocuous expression on her face and it suddenly makes a whole lot of sense.

"You called that bastard?"

Quinn shrugs and stares levelly at Santana. "Weren't you the one who first taught me about revenge? Remember? We were eleven and you said, _Quinny, when someone messes with you, you turn back around and punch them right in the crotch_." She balls up her fist as if to demonstrate. "Just taking a page out of your book, Santana."

For one terrible second, Santana feels herself teetering on the edge of a breakdown, weepy tears and all, but then, praise the lords, her adrenaline kicks into high gear and her true, head bitch self takes over again. She charges at Quinn.

"Bitch, I am going to break your arms, both of them, so you can't even dream of picking up another phone again," she says, taking hold of Quinn's shoulders and pushing hard.

Quinn yelps and her back hits the cabinet with a loud thud, sending the things inside rattling. The psychotic wench grabs Santana's hair and drags her back with her until their heads nearly collide.

"Not before I send you back to Ohio," she hisses, her death grip moving down to Santana's forearms.

Santana tries to slap her hands away.

"The day you succeed in doing that is the day you stand over my cold, dead, _beaten_ body," she breathes and frees her arm for just long enough that she can throw a punch at Quinn. It lands squarely on her cheekbone, for which Santana internally gloats for all of two seconds before she's being shoved back roughly.

It happens suddenly and Santana's tipsy enough that she loses her footing and goes sprawling onto the floor. Pain blooms up her side and elbow where she lands, slightly curled. _Motherfuck_.

"Gladly!" Quinn shouts down at her, palm clutching her reddening cheek. "You think you're the only one who can throw down?"

Santana tests out her arm-stiff but still battle-ready. "That? Blondie, I was just getting primed," she says and hauls herself up, all a-go for round two.

"_Oh my god_," she hears someone cry from the entrance of the kitchen. Rachel. "What is happening?"

"Hey!" someone else calls out. It's Kurt, and before Santana can punch Quinn again, he's wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her away.

Santana struggles against him, and now apparently fucking Blaine too. "Let me at her!" she shouts.

Blaine digs his fingers deep enough into her arm that she yelps. "Cool it, Santana," he says.

"How about you quit marring my skin, blazers?" she snaps at him and continues to struggle. "Por dios, I will hurt you both. I can take on two skinny hipsters on a sick day."

Kurt yanks her again, forcefully. "I may be slight in stature but I am all muscle, honey, and the word is _fashionista_."

While Santana continues to get orange alert level treatment from the fab two over here, Rachel hurries over to Quinn and examines her cheek.

"Are you okay?" she asks, reaching her hand up. "It's swelling."

"I'm fine. It barely hurts," Quinn says, swatting Rachel's hand away and glowering at Santana.

"Imma gladly give you one on the other side then," she calls. "Balance it out."

Rachel turns around, stomps over, and parks her ass right in front of Santana. "Santana Lopez, I demand you stop this madness right now. You're making a scene. People are staring. You're leaving people with battle wounds!"

"Berry, get out of my face before I upgrade your nose from value size to gargantuan," Santana threatens.

"Aside from the fact that I don't appreciate you taking out your anger on me," Rachel continues, refusing to step down. "I think it would be best if you apologized to Quinn."

This display of overwhelming solidarity against Santana is sickening. "I have absolutely nothing to apologize for," she growls. "There's only one person in this room who, besides being crowned queen asshole of the world, should be made to apologize, and she's standing over there with a big fat shiner on her face."

Quinn scoffs. "For doing to you exactly what you did to me?"

"Oh, please. I fucked up a stupid, meaningless introduction between you and some jackass you're better off never associating with anyway. You got me kicked out of my _fucking apartment_," Santana yells.

Quinn blinks.

"She did what?" Kurt asks incredulously, his grip on Santana loosening significantly. See. If only they had one iota of trust in her.

"_Quinn_," Rachel gasps disapprovingly and swings back around.

"Yup, ladies and gays," Santana announces, pulling herself free from Blaine and Kurt and making a show of dusting off her blouse. "Let me introduce you to our master of evil," she gestures at said she-devil.

Quinn looks at her, brow furrowed. "Wait," she interjects, shouldering past Rachel to face Santana. "Kicked out?" she asks faintly, voice low enough that their audience probably won't hear.

"Yes, Fabray. On my ass. In the street. Without a home," Santana glares. "I bet it's making you hot in your maternity panties just to hear me say this."

Quinn flushes and shakes her head quickly. "Hang on a second. All I did was call your landlord and tell him about the cat. I... there was no discussion about getting you kicked out."

"Well, your little stunt did the trick."

"Jesus, Santana," Quinn says, all hushed and contrite-like. For a second, Santana actually believes her. Just for a hot second.

"Oh, stop," she says. "Don't even try to pretend like you didn't want exactly this to happen, Miss _I'll send you back to Ohio like my life depends on it_."

Quinn's jaw clenches. "I didn't mean it like that," she says tersely.

Rachel chooses that moment to throw in more of her unwanted and entirely unhelpful interference. She steps between them.

"Santana and Quinn," she says. "I'm still not sure I fully understand the nature of this violent argument-I did after all miss the first five minutes of action, couldn't be avoided-but it seems like you both realize this was all just a big misunderstanding."

"Rachel," Quinn says warningly, staring with her trademark Fabray daggers.

Rachel ignores her. "And while I understand that right now it might feel enthralling to engage in this she-said, she-said dialogue, I urge you to look past your injured prides and look on the bright side of this. It seems like you're even now. You two can just forget everything that happened here tonight," she waves her hands, "and go back to your odd, strained but generally amicable relationship. And Santana, you and I finally have our chance to be roommates!"

Santana's too enraged at everything else the crazy lady is saying to fully digest that last part.

"Say what, Furby?"

Rachel beams. "You can stay with me, of course, in my guest bedroom."

If Santana wasn't in full on Lima Heights mode right now, she would laugh. "No offense, I appreciate the offer and I'd move in with you, really, but I would rather impale myself on a rusty, old herp-infested stake. Actually, yes to the offense. I mean that wholeheartedly."

Rachel's eyes go all big and wounded and she turns to Blaine, who pulls her into a hug. He shoots Santana a disapproving look.

"Besides," Santana continues, ignoring their disgusting display of faghaggery. "She got me into this mess," she points accusingly at Quinn, "and she's going to get me out of it."

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Quinn asks.

Santana smirks and takes a moment to fold her arms across her chest. "I want in on your swank pad, Wall Street."

Kurt, the bastard, actually starts laughing.

Quinn's eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Quinn laughs incredulously. "Wait. You want to live... in _my_ apartment... with _me_?"

Santana shrugs, studying her nails. "Your place is baller, it's right near work, and you definitely have enough room for two."

"Three, if you count Lord Tubbington," Kurt pipes up. "This is actually a brilliant idea. Just think, the great misadventures of two ex-Cheerios, all grown up. It could be a novel. At worst, a reality show. I applaud you, Santana Lopez."

"Aw, thank you," Santana cocks her head at him. She loves being in charge of these followers. "So, what do you say, Q? Only way to make this right."

Quinn groans, glowering at them all before she turns on her heels and marches off.

"Fine!" she yells behind her, and Santana thinks maybe she can get with this grass is greener business after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Thank you so much for all the reviews and subscriptions. I'm in nonplatonic love with each and every one of you. It's incredible to hear that people are enjoying the story. 3 Also, I wanted to let you know that I hope to update about once a week. I'm in the process of moving apartments and trying to find a job (yikes) so that's slowing me down a little, but I'm super invested in this thing and getting these two ladies together, so write I will. Here is your next chapter.

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><p>For the next two days, Santana's life is a mess of frantic packing, angry phone calls to her landlord, and swearing matches with Lord Tubbington. (He participates. He gives the most profane dirty looks Santana has ever seen from anyone other than her mother.)<p>

On the 49th hour, she stands miserably outside Quinn's apartment, a duffle bag under one arm and Lord Tubbington under the other. Together with his kennel, he weighs about three times as much as Santana herself, so when Quinn takes her time answering the door Santana kicks at it and yells.

"Coming, _goddamn_!" Quinn shouts from inside.

For a supposedly religious person, Quinn blasphemes a lot. She swings open the door, bitch-faced and dressed in what is apparently her Sunday best, a pair of sweatpants and a ratty Cheerios t-shirt.

"You're early."

"What, did I interrupt your morning wank? Move out of our way," Santana shoulders past her and sets Tubbs down near the door. "And if you ask me if I've been crying, I will deny it and slash your throat," she says. She can't help it that she sometimes stays up at night and thinks about how much of a shitshow her life has become. And weeps a little. She throws her bag on the couch before flopping herself down.

"I wasn't planning on it," Quinn rolls her eyes. It looks hilarious when one of them is purple and swollen to all hell. Santana feels pride swell up in her chest. Such fine handiwork.

What isn't fine is the mass of disheveled blond atop Quinn's head.

"What in Sue Sylvester's name is going on with your mop? You could at least run a brush through there."

"I was asleep," Quinn protests, but she doesn't make a single move to fix it. Instead, she kneels down to let Lord Tubbington out of his kennel. She lifts him off the floor with a grunt and brings him over to the armchair across from Santana. It's a miracle they both fit. "With my work schedule at the firm, Sunday's the only day I can sleep in."

"Spare me the miserable details," Santana says, not yet ready to hear Quinn drone about her job again. She considers imposing an official ban on it. Quinn owes her. "Aren't you supposed to be at church or something anyway? Praying away the unwanted pregnancies?"

"Nope," Quinn responds airily. "Haven't had to do that since I started fucking women."

Santana can't help it that she bursts out laughing. She's slightly scandalized. Well played, Fabray. Still, Quinn's wit would be more impressive if Santana didn't already know her inside out.

"Give it up," she responds. "You've been with _one_ girl. That hardly qualifies as 'fucking women', Kanye."

Quinn flushes and busies herself scratching Lord Tubbington's chin. "Well, with my job as demanding as it is right now, it's not like I can go on dates every other night."

The only reason Santana doesn't bitch her out for mentioning her lame-o job again is because she can relate. She hasn't gotten laid in months. Fucking _months_. Her lizard self is about to jump off a bridge, she's so horny.

Quinn clears her throat. "Where's the rest of your stuff, anyway?" she asks, seemingly keen on changing the subject.

"Doorman's taking care of it," Santana responds. She grabs an apple off the bowl on the coffee table, then stretches her legs out on it, to which Quinn scolds, "Shoes off my reclaimed pinewood."

Jesus, fine. Santana glares and makes a show of kicking off her heels.

"Also," Quinn adds, "The man is not a mover. You can't boss him around," she says, back to her ever-irritating, self-important way.

"Have you seen me? He took one look at these twins and practically dropped his heinous Sears workpants for me. Besides, it's only like... seven or eight boxes."

"Excessive, as per usual from you," Quinn says.

Santana doesn't tell her that they're extra-large, too. Her furniture and other crap is in storage, but she refuses to part with any of her clothes, shoes, or film noir poster frames.

"I had to bring some of my own, more superior decor. It looks like Country Living mated with a rose garden then threw up in here. Other than the overstuffed furniture, which is tolerable, I'm not digging it," she shrugs.

Quinn outright ignores Santana's (accurate) observation to instead yawn then stick her face in Lord Tubbington's fur. "Aren't you the sweetest, most cuddly bug in the world?" she coos sickeningly at him.

Santana doesn't understand what it is about that cat that makes blondes lose all self-respect around him.

"He makes me miss Britt," Quinn admits candidly, and no. Do not even start with that.

Santana's unprepared to delve into the ocean of sorrow that is missing her best friend. "Is the room ready?" Santana demands, instead of responding to the uncalled-for comment.

Quinn looks up from Tubbs' neck questioningly.

"You do know I only have one room, right?"

"No shit," Santana says. She's been to Quinn's place, mainly on the rare occasions they've been amicable to each other. "But I figured that with the amount of bullshit you've inflicted on my life, you'd be hospitable enough to offer me your bedroom."

There's a beat of silence between them, then Quinn throws her head back and laughs.

Santana frowns. She crosses her arms and waits for her to recover from the insanity.

"Oh my god," Quinn says finally. "You've lost your mind, Santana. You know, I thought maybe it happened the other night when you _maimed my face_, but it turns out you still had more to lose. Let me make this clear: you get the couch or you get out," she says.

The words are harsh, but Quinn's tone is teasing and she's smiling slightly, like she's really only entertaining herself. The discordance between the two is scary in the way that only Head Cheerio Quinn Fabray can be.

"Christ. Fine," Santana responds, disgruntled. "It was worth a try."

Quinn's smile widens victoriously, then she burrows deeper into her armchair and goes back to exchanging cross-species love with Lord Tubbington.

What's even more scary? Santana is starting to feel right at home around her weird, bipolar friend. It's not entirely her fault. She can't help but appreciate because, seriously. She hasn't seen this sleepy, unguarded side of Quinn since she started that terrible job of hers, and yet she still manages to match Santana jibe for jibe like a pro. Few people can do that at all, let alone do it all sleep-dizzy.

Also, staring at Quinn's black eye is doing weird things to her. She thinks it's probably because she left it there. Santana's like an alpha dog-she gets off on laying her claim on things, minus the peeing.

This train of thought is going in a completely uncomfortable direction, so it's just as well that there's a knock at the door right then. Santana pops up from the couch, way eager to get away from Quinn and her distracting ways.

The doorman is standing on the other side of the door, all disgustingly sweaty in the forehead region and glaring at her. Santana throws him one of her brilliant smiles. _A_ for effort, lapdog. She ushers him into the apartment, ready to get this move over with.

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><p>Santana balances her phone between her ear and shoulder and attempts to work Quinn's toaster. It's five in the morning the next day and besides needing to be up for work, fuck her miserable life, this is the only time she can talk to Brittany, who is currently blessing Australia with her presence.<p>

"Yeah," Santana says into the receiver. "So the asshole told me I was evicted."

She doesn't bother keeping her voice down. Quinn's already awake, for whatever ridiculous reason.

"Did Lord Tubbington let him in?" Brittany asks, her voice faint over the static. "He has thumbs. I saw them myself."

"Thanks, Britt. Definitely going to have nightmares about him stabbing me in my sleep now."

"Lord Tubbington would never do that, Santana. He's non-aggressive."

Santana scoffs and slams on the toaster. It finally pops out her toast, dark and mostly inedible. "I sincerely doubt it," she says. "But no. Ryan said he saw him through the window."

"Oh, I should have warned you that would happen," Brittany says. "Remember back in Lima the only way people could find my house was to look for the big cat sitting in the window?"

Santana smiles. "No. You just thought that was your actual address for like three years."

"That's because I thought the numbers on our front door were for Santa to know how many presents to leave at our house on Christmas," Brittany protests.

"129?" Santana laughs.

"Yeah," Brittany says. "He never left that many. I thought I was bad every year."

Santana can almost see Brittany's pout. Regardless of how long she's known her quirky other half, she learns something new every day.

"I miss you," she admits, poking at her toast. She's still closer with Brittany than she is with anyone else. Despite the fact that their relationship didn't work out and that it shredded Santana's fucking heart, they still continue to be best friends. And she'll always wholeheartedly believe that they're soul mates. But somehow, they were always just better as partners in crime than partners. It took Santana a long and painful time to realize that, but now she can't imagine their relationship any differently.

"Everyone here is all crazy town all the time," Santana adds. "Not that that's a surprise-I'm always the only sane one in every sitch-but it blows major Hudson balls that I can't bitch to you about it."

"I miss you too," Brittany says sincerely. Then she asks, "Does Finn have big balls?"

"Massive. Ugh. Like he was genetically engineered to be part-camel or something. He could use those things to win bowling championships. Few people know this, but it's an actual holy miracle the sperminator didn't knock Q up in that hot tub."

Brittany giggles brightly, but says, "That's gross, Santana."

"I can't help it that he traumatized me with them."

"Is that Brittany?"

Santana glances up to see Quinn standing at the double doors at the entrance to the kitchen. Judging from her unusually peaceful face, she didn't overhear that last part. Good. Santana cannot handle her wrath this early in the morning. She nods.

"Let me talk to her," Quinn says, coming over to the kitchen table, fully dressed in a swank gray dress. Her hair is wet from the shower and she looks tired, like she got maybe three hours of sleep, which probably isn't far from the truth considering she was still typing away furiously at her laptop when Santana fell asleep.

"No, bitch," Santana frowns. "I'm not letting you steal my precious minutes."

Santana hears Brittany squeal, "Ooh, Quinn!" just as Quinn swipes the phone from her, in the process spraying Santana with droplets of water from her shower-wet hair.

"What the fuck," she demands, wiping at her face.

Quinn ignores her and smiles into the phone. "B, did you find the koala to bring back home?" she asks, inexplicably, and waits for a beat. "No, the other one, with the pink leotard."

Santana doesn't understand their relationship. It's like they exist on a completely different wavelength than everyone else. She used to think it was a blonde thing, but really it's just a Quinn and Brittany thing. She's a jealous person, so yeah, she's bitter, but for the most part she deals with it. At least Quinn doesn't treat Brittany condescendingly, the way she sometimes did in high school. Santana only allows that bitchiness to happen between herself and Quinn.

Quinn pauses her chatter to reach for a piece of Santana's toast and asks, "Are you eating this?"

"Take it," Santana grumbles, giving up hope that she'll ever speak to Brittany again.

She gets up from the kitchen table and trudges to the living room slash her new bedroom to get dressed for work. Quinn, the dictator, made her unpack everything last night, which made Santana want to kick her at the time, but at least now she can find her socks. She'll never admit anything to Quinn.

She changes into her uniform, then decides she won't pack for her gig later that night. Living so close to work means she can drop by here again. Maybe she can even take a nap. That would be unprecedented for a Monday. Santana gives her brilliant self a mental brofist for this moving idea, as improvised as it may have been.

She heads into the bathroom to get her make-up on, but Quinn has turned the damn place into a rainforest.

"Hey, Q, do you not get the concept of turning the vent fan on?" Santana yells out the door and wipes down the mirror. No response.

On the counter, Quinn has taken the time to carefully separate her things from Santana's. Which, okay, a little annoying and anal, but Santana can bite her tongue. Or at least she can when the sun hasn't even risen and she's awake for reasons unrelated to nighttime alcohol consumption. She's going to quit this awful barista job, she thinks as she applies her foundation, as soon as she can get another singing gig.

Quinn comes into the bathroom, no longer on the phone, just as Santana's moving on to the eye make-up. "Britt said goodbye and to give you a hug. Let's just pretend the second part happened," she says, grabbing her blow dryer.

"So callous," Santana says. "Also, excuse you. I was getting ready in here."

"I get dibs on everything in this apartment," Quinn responds placidly and turns the blow dryer on to what has to be the highest setting.

"Not on this ass, you don't," Santana yells over the noise.

Quinn is all poker-faced about the comment, except for a tiny eyebrow raise that Santana doesn't know how to read. She reaches in front of Quinn for her lipstick, purposely close, and her arm grazes Quinn's stomach. The blonde twitches and pulls away, eyes hyperfocused on the brush running through her hair.

One day, maybe they'll actually be civil to one another. Maybe that same day Kurt will declare his nonplatonic love for Kim Kardashian and Rachel will do something for the benefit of a human being not herself.

Santana eventually gets overheated from the hot air blowing at her, so she huffs and gives up on the blusher for now. She makes sure to shoulder check Quinn on her way out of the bathroom.

"Jackass!" Quinn yells behind her.

"Takes one to know one," Santana calls back.

She's out the front door, bracing herself for another long shitty day, before Quinn even comes back out of the bathroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: A fairly longer chapter than usual this week! I apologize for the ongoing gratuitous use of Lord Tubbington as a plot device. I just can't help myself.

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><p>By the end of the week, they manage to work out a morning routine that doesn't involve Santana wanting to punch Quinn in the face, for the most part.<p>

On the days when she has to be at the coffee shop, Santana wakes up early and gets herself ready to go right as Quinn's trudging out of her room. The other days, Santana attempts to sleep in while Quinn, who is ludicrously clumsy when she wakes up, bangs around the apartment. It gives Santana nightmares about that time Coach Sylvester sent them to this boot camp that was disguised as a cheer camp and Quinn nearly broke her neck practicing a lift one morning.

Sometimes, they even manage to have a half peaceful sit-down breakfast together.

Still, it's a little excessive that she has to deal with Quinn's face every mother-loving morning, day, and night. If nothing else, at least it's pleasant to look at.

What's absolutely most excessive, though, is that one night Quinn shows up at the bar where Santana performs.

Santana is halfway through her set, eyes mostly closed because by this point she's lost in the song. The music is melancholy on the outside, but it's one of the few places she can find true happiness and still express herself so candidly. Just close her eyes and let emotion fill up her voice until it nearly cracks.

She pauses after the song to smile at her audience. Mostly it's middle-class, middle-aged men who come here after work to drown their cubicle-induced sorrows-this isn't exactly the classiest joint in town-but tonight Santana spies a familiar blonde head out there. Quinn is sitting at one of the back tables, no drink, and staring right back at Santana.

What the hell, Fabray?

Quinn used to come by here every so often, but given all the catfighting, Santana was under the impression that they were on an "off-again" phase of their on-again, off-again relationship. No good can be behind this little visit. Maybe Quinn found out she borrowed her earrings and is now here to whip her ass about it. That wouldn't be too far-fetched, actually.

She clears her throat and says into the microphone, "A special thank you to our returning guests tonight. And if I happen to be wearing any of your belongings, it was purely by accident." Some audience members chuckle like there was some joke to get, but most of them, including Quinn, look confused. Santana adjusts the mic and launches into her next song.

As usual, Quinn's eyes don't leave her for the entirety of the set. It's jarring and slightly serial killer-esque, but Santana's used to it and she survived years of Rachel Berry glaring maniacally at her during performances because the midget felt threatened that Santana was better than her. She's a pro at ignoring loco ladies in the crowd.

She finishes up with an original song, then does a small curtsy and thanks the band before leaving the stage. She heads straight for Quinn's table.

"So, what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?" Santana asks when she gets there. It's mostly lighthearted because she's high off being on stage.

Quinn manages to look bashful and roll her eyes at the same time. She stands up, pats down her skirt, and says, "Brittany asked me to come keep you company. I'm doing her a favor."

It's a complete, barefaced lie, judging from the fact that Quinn is looking above and to the left of Santana's actual face. Santana crosses her arms at this development.

"Brittany, huh? It wouldn't have anything to do with me being the best singer you know?"

"Nothing," Quinn confirms with what might be a little smile on her lips.

Santana nudges Quinn with her elbow. "Come on, pinocchio, let's liquor up," she says, cocking her head toward the bar.

Quinn nods and follows her. "You were amazing, though," she says tentatively, like she doesn't want to admit the words. "I love when you sing _Feeling Good_."

Quinn waxing lyrical about her isn't exactly Santana's fantasy, and she knows she's the shit, but for some reason, tonight it makes her feel warm around the face area.

"Thanks, Q. Maybe I'll give you a private show if you let me watch TV at a loudness level that's actually discernible."

"I just have this portfolio I've been working on and I can't get distracted, I told you," Quinn explains, needing to go ruin the moment. It's like she was born a wet blanket. "My boss told me that the promotion could possibly hinge on-"

"Ugh, stop," Santana interrupts, waving her hand. "None of that tonight. I will literally beg."

"Really?" Quinn smirks, taking a seat at a barstool. "The floor seems kind of gross."

"I'll risk it," Santana says. She walks behind the bar. "Besides, my knees are pretty practiced."

Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose and giggles. "Of course they are."

"So dainty," Santana comments, reaching for some glasses. She's slightly impressed. This iota of friendliness between them actually doesn't feel like getting a spinal tap. She fixes herself a vodka tonic and Quinn an amaretto and coke because the girl has a sweet tooth the size of Lauren Zizes. Santana's convinced it's because she's so damn hormonal all the time. She slides the drink in front of Quinn. "Here, let's drink to me."

"Hey," calls the bartender. "No freebies!"

"Shut it, Ian," Santana snaps at him. "I just busted my butt up there. I think I gets to treat my friend to one drink."

He scowls and turns back to whatever lame conversation he was having with whatever lame customer. Santana looks back at Quinn.

"I'll leave him a tip," Quinn offers guiltily.

"For what?" Santana asks. "I made the drink. You might as well give it to me. Here, you can slip it in my tits if you want. Easier access." She points at her chest.

For a second, Quinn's eyes drop to her tits, like she's entertaining it. Or maybe she's just enjoying the view. Then she clears her throat and looks away, taking a sip of her drink. The heat in Santana's face suddenly triples and hyperawareness prickles her body. Fuck this sex-drought. It's messing with her hormones. She tips her head back and downs a quarter of her drink in an attempt to cool her inappropriate ass down.

"Listen…" Quinn starts, rubbing her finger into the condensation on her glass, and Santana meets her eyes questioningly. Just then, though, her manager comes up to the counter and slides into the stool next to Quinn.

"Nice job tonight, as always," she says to Santana, slipping her an envelope across the counter.

She stuffs it in her back pocket and says, "Thanks, Rhonda."

Rhonda part-owns the bar with her husband. She's a small, sassy woman, old enough to be Santana's mother but like a million steps ahead in the cool old lady department. She turns to Quinn. "How are you, Quinn?"

"Good, thanks," Quinn smiles politely. "And you?"

"Getting by. Just making sure I don't kill my husband most days," Rhonda responds.

Santana watches their exchange dubiously. The fact that Rhonda even knows Quinn's name is scary. It means she's seen her enough times to remember, which means she's seen her enough times to…

"So, are you two ladies together yet or not?" Rhonda asks with a knowing smile in Santana's direction.

…make a suggestive comment about her love life. Not surprising. Ever since she found out Santana has a preference for the ladies, Rhonda hasn't shut up about it, like she thinks it's some sort of fun secret to be shared between them.

It's dark in there, but Quinn blushes so hard Santana can see the ruddiness underneath her cheeks, like her skin is trying to emulate a stick of Bubble Yum. She, on the other hand, is accustomed to Rhonda's brazenness and doesn't feel guilty about punishing her for it.

"Funny you should ask," she says to Rhonda casually. "We just moved in together, actually."

Rhonda's smile fades very quickly. Santana smirks. That's what you get when you mess with Santana Lopez, former temporary head cheerleader _and_ mastermind of the Bully Whips.

Rhonda looks back and forth between them. "Moved in together?"

Santana nods. "Last week."

"You were single a week before that, Santana. Don't you think that's moving a little too fast?" Rhonda asks.

"No. We just couldn't bear to be apart," Santana shrugs and reaches across the counter for Quinn's hand. "I had to be near her. Right, Quinny-poo?"

Quinn looks down at her hand and then makes this odd noise between a laugh and a squeak, like she's partly amused and partly alarmed. Santana doesn't blame her. She'd feel the same way around the brilliance that is herself.

"You kids these days," Rhonda says, exasperated.

Oh stop, woman. Not two minutes ago she was making a shameless comment about them hooking up, and now they're children? Besides, if Quinn _was _hers, what would be wrong with making sure she had full possession? Santana finishes off the rest of her drink. "I'll send you the wedding invite," she adds.

"You do that," Rhonda responds, "but at least make sure it isn't any time soon. It all goes downhill from there-take it from me."

"I can't imagine," Santana says dreamily, throwing a faux-loving sidelong glance at Quinn, who stares back at her, lips pursed.

Rhonda is starting to look a little charmed. She clears her throat. "I'll admit, it is nice seeing you in love, Santana," she says. "You have a different spark in your eyes when you're with this one," she gestures to Quinn.

The 'spark' is probably that never-ending irritation Santana feels around Quinn.

"So I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Rhonda continues and Santana looks back at her curiously. "But we have to cut your weeknight slots next week."

Santana tenses up, letting go of Quinn's hand. "What? Why?"

"I'm sorry, Santana, but it'll only be for the week. We need to cover some repairs in the restrooms and money's tight."

"What are you talking about? These sheep adore me. The only time it's ever busy in here is when I'm on that stage," Santana argues. She refuses to be skimped on pay again. Not when she still owes Ryan her last portion of rent.

"I know that, sweetie, which is why we gave you the contract in the first place. But this takes priority," Rhonda shrugs. "Think of it as a vacation week?"

Great. Just fucking wonderful. "But I don't need a vacation," Santana says tersely. "What I need is to pay my rent."

"There's nothing I can do about it," Rhonda says, her tone nowhere near apologetic enough.

Fuck this. Santana is sick of how people in this city, despite how chummy they pretend to be, would rather slit her throat than give up any of their money. Unfortunately for her willing fists, she can't even throw down if she ever wants to come back to this shithole.

"Hold on a second," Quinn pipes up, her brow furrowed. "So you're cutting one of your sources of income when you and I both know you need cash flow to cover maintenance costs? I don't typically deal with financing short term expenses, but even I can tell that's poor management."

Santana blinks. She has no clue in hell what Suze Orman over here is saying, but it sounds legit. And kind of hot. And now Rhonda is looking at Quinn like she just realized the cute little puppy sitting harmlessly in the corner actually bites. It's probably the zillionth time in Quinn's life she's managed to garner that reaction from someone. Santana is slightly proud, if not a little nervous about where this is going.

"I've been running this place for thirteen years, little lady," Rhonda responds, folding her arms across her chest. "I think I can make decisions about my own expenditure."

"But it's illogical," Quinn insists. "You can't raise funds if you're losing income."

Rhonda's starting to look like she's about to really blow, so Santana grabs Quinn's arm. It's a tough call to make. As much as she'd like to see this showdown play through, she can't afford to give up her paycheck, and Quinn pissing off the person responsible for handing it to her won't do.

"Come on," she says, throwing her a pointed glance. "We're bouncing."

Quinn still looks annoyed, but at Santana's words, she stands and turns her nose up at Rhonda. If anything at all, Quinn is loyal to a tee. Maybe her spirit animal reallyis a puppy. Just probably an annoying one, like a pomeranian.

Santana doesn't bother saying goodbye to Rhonda. Instead, she pulls Quinn into the back of the club so she can pick up her purse, and then they exit through the back door.

"I appreciate you pulling your credentials out of your overeducated ass, Quinn, but I need this job," she says as she walks down the street toward the subway station.

"But that was bullshit," Quinn says exasperatedly, hurrying after her. "She can't do that."

"Really? Because to me it felt like any other day," Santana shrugs. "My friend gets me kicked out of my apartment, my boss cuts my pay." She has too much pride to sound bitter about it. She reserves that for the stage, or for when she's had more than one vodka tonic to drink.

Quinn has the decency to remain silent in response to that, and they don't talk even as she follows Santana underground and onto the next train out of Brooklyn. The car is crowded, so they have to stand near the doors, in each other's space.

Quinn studies Santana, then she frowns. "Are those my earrings?"

"I don't know," Santana says, staring blankly back at her.

Quinn leans closer and pushes Santana's hair away from her face, her fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"They _are_," Quinn smiles, tugging on one lightly. "You could have just asked me, you know."

"And had to sit through the wonderful experience of you verbally castrating me? No, thank you," Santana says, swatting away Quinn's hand. It's making the skin of her neck and jaw way too sensitive. Not to mention Quinn's smile is bright and doing something annoying to her insides.

Quinn lowers her arm back to her side and laughs. "Right. Like you'd ever just sit there and take it."

"I would if there was begging involved."

It takes Quinn about four seconds longer than necessary to get the joke, and then she looks scandalized. "Santana!"

"What?" Santana responds. "I was raised in Lima Heights. It's in my nature to exploit gutter-worthy moments. And don't even try to pretend like you have innocent ears, teen mom."

"Is it also in your nature to abuse tired nicknames?"

Santana raises an eyebrow. Touché. "If you'd rather, I have a nice selection of fresh ones to choose from."

"Stick to 'Quinn'," Quinn says pointedly. "Anyway. The earrings look better on you. Keep them."

Santana smirks and leans closer. "Lavishing me with expensive jewelry already, Fabray? This _is_ moving faster than Rhonda expected."

Rather than give her a catty response, Quinn breaks eye contact. She stays quiet for a while, staring out the windows of the train at the inner walls of New York, then asks, "Why did you let her think we were together back there?"

Santana studies Quinn's face. Her expression is characteristically masked, with the exception of a lingering flush on her cheeks.

"She was prying," Santana shrugs. "It was a joke."

Quinn blinks at those words, like she's surprised or something, Santana doesn't know.

"She was the one who was joking, Santana," Quinn says defensively and takes a step backward, putting space between them. "Don't you think you took it a bit far?"

"No," Santana says, frowning, "but clearly you do."

"Just don't do it again," Quinn says cryptically.

This doesn't happen very often, because she's hardly ever in the wrong, but Santana wants to kick herself right now. She should have known better than to joke around with the world's biggest buzzkill.

"Oh, lighten up, bossypants," Santana says, irritated that she has to defend herself around Quinn for the ten millionth time. "_It was a joke_."

"Stop saying that," Quinn snaps, eyes stormy.

"Jesus, fine," Santana snaps right back at her, confused as to why this is an issue. She knows Quinn isn't so closeted that she'd mind the public suggestion of a relationship between them. Which means she must be uncomfortable with the thought of being with Santana. Specifically her. For some reason, that irritates Santana down to her bones.

The train arrives at their stop just then, and she turns and strides ahead of Quinn before the girl can spout any more bullshit. Santana needs some time away from this madness between her and Quinn. It's giving her fucking heart palpitations.

"Listen," she says when they get to the exit. "You run on home, pop a few stabilizers. I'll see you later."

Quinn looks offended, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she turns on her heels and stalks down the street.

Santana watches her go for a second, then shakes her head and goes in the opposite direction. She doesn't actually have a destination in mind, but she needs to cool down. Apparently the only way to do that is to be away from Quinn.

She didn't realize how quickly the constant back and forth between them would get so tiring. She can deal with being on the defensive, no problem-she learned how to do that in the first grade, but this is becoming too unpredictable. Santana can't tell when her walls should even be up anymore.

Frankly, it's messing with her chi.

She doesn't stay out for too long-just walks around the block a few times and people-watches for a little bit-but it's still pretty late when Santana gets back to the apartment. So she's surprised to see that Quinn is still up, sitting in her armchair with a binder spread open across her lap.

"Hey," Santana says as she enters the living room.

Quinn looks up at her, stands, and walks out of the room without a word.

Santana blinks. Okay, then. Her confusion level goes from moderate to like, Berry trying to handle a dick for the first time. Either Quinn sat there for a half hour just so she could pointedly give Santana the cold shoulder-she would-or she was waiting up for her. The second option is too much for Santana to comprehend right now.

She groans and goes to get a towel. All she wants right now is a shower and some sleep to clear her mind. When she comes out of the shower, the lights are off in Quinn's room, so Santana shakes her head and goes to curl up on the couch.

* * *

><p>Santana is a fairly light sleeper, and the discomfort from sleeping on the couch makes her doubly so, so when a bloodcurdling scream comes from Quinn's bedroom in the middle of the night, she's almost instantly awake. Santana blinks her eyes open groggily and hears another scream.<p>

What the hell?

She pushes herself up on her elbows.

"_Oh my god_," Quinn yells from inside her room.

"Quinn?" Santana calls.

She shoves her blankets off, starting to get a little concerned about all this havoc, but before she can go check on her, Quinn comes charging out of her room. She's wearing just her bra and pajama bottoms.

"He _peed_ on my bed!" Quinn yells to Santana, face bright red.

It must be like three in the morning, so Santana can't be blamed for being a little slow, but it takes her a few moments to absorb what Quinn just said.

She's shocked for maybe a millisecond, and then she bursts out laughing.

It's a good thing that Quinn's already in the bathroom because she probably wouldn't appreciate seeing Santana rolling around on her couch laughing.

Lord Tubbington, maybe you aren't so bad after all.

The perpetrator trots out of Quinn's room just then. He looks up at Santana, mewls innocuously, then runs off to his food bowl. It sends her into another round of hysterics.

Quinn marches back out of the bathroom holding rags and a bucket in her hands. She pauses in her tracks.

"Are you… are you _laughing_?" she asks Santana murderously.

Santana sits up, as straight-faced as possible. "Absolutely not."

Quinn glares. "Get up and help me."

Santana does as she's told. With that expression on her face and that disarray of hair-seriously, it's pointing in every cardinal direction-Quinn could scare her into doing anything.

She follows the angry lady back into the bedroom and helps her tug the sheets off the bed.

"How did this even happen?" Quinn asks, starting to scrub at the mattress. The stain is big and right in the center of the bed.

Santana throws the sheets in a pile on the floor where Quinn's pajama top is laying, then grabs a rag and gets to work. "Looks like Tubby had some trouble finding his litter box."

"I said _how_, not _what_," Quinn responds grumpily.

Santana has to bite her tongue really hard to make sure she doesn't laugh or say something teasing in response. She doesn't want to get strangled tonight, but she can't help it that this is possibly the most hysterical thing to ever happen. It makes up for all the weirdness of the past week. Maybe even the past year. She doesn't even care too much that she has to help clean up.

"Ugh, we can't. I'm going to have to get it cleaned professionally," Quinn says miserably and stands up after a while of scrubbing. "Ew, god, gross." She holds the rag as far away from her body as she can.

Santana rolls her eyes and takes it from her, not as girlishly squeamish. She picks up the rest of the things to take to the washing machine.

"Want to wash those too?" she asks, nodding toward Quinn's pajama bottoms.

Quinn looks down, nods, and strips them off. She drops them into Santana's pile, then turns around to rummage in her dresser.

Santana's urge to laugh effectively dissipates at the unobstructed view of Quinn's back, ass, and legs that she's granted just then. Quinn's wearing simple white cotton panties that are accented with black lace trim. The lace hugs her slender hips and ends right beneath a pair of stunning back dimples. Santana's pulse inappropriately kicks into high gear, making her heart pound heavily in her chest, apparently uncaring of the fact that the catpocolypse is going on right now and that she's currently holding a pile of piss-wet linen.

Pull it the fuck together, Lopez.

She turns around and tries to shake the image of Quinn's backside from her mind. They've shared locker rooms and bathrooms their entire lives. She can deal with a little exposed skin from Quinn.

Kind of.

Not at all, apparently.

And Santana thought she was a tits-and-abs kind of girl.

She hurries out of the bedroom before this morbid train of thought can go anywhere else, and goes to shove the soiled linens into the washing machine and wash her hands.

Of course, the object of her twisted affections happens to walk into the bathroom right then.

Santana tries to look at anything but at any part of Quinn, who is completely oblivious to the miniature lust-crisis Santana has going on over here because she's still freaking out about the stupid cat.

"I think some of it got in my hair," Quinn complains, lifting her hand to touch her head. "Can you check?"

"No way am I getting near that mop. Just shower already," Santana retorts.

And for the love of all that is holy, do not strip off any more clothing in her vicinity.

Santana leaves the bathroom as quickly as she came in and goes back to her position on the couch, burying her face in her pillow. She tries to force herself to go back to sleep, or at least remember that this is supposed to be a hilarious ordeal. Disgusting even.

It definitely shouldn't be filling her whole traitorous body with heat.

Santana grunts in frustration and rolls onto her back, trying to conjure up everything about Quinn that she hates: the general holier-than-thou attitude, the hypocrisy, the mood swings, that self-righteous little smile, her scary undead gaze. Wait. Are those supposed to be bad things? The sound of running water from the shower is distracting Santana.

The one thought that manages to somewhat kill her lady-boner, thank Sappho, is how terrifying it is that this is happening because she took _one_ glance at Quinn's ass. Santana's never been so out of control of her own body. The thought is mortifying enough to put a giant damper on her fucked up libido.

She rubs at her eyes irritatedly and swears that like, tomorrow she's going to go out and finally get laid. And it'll have absolutely nothing to do with Quinn or her wet, soapy body.

The water in the shower stops and a few minutes later, Quinn walks out toweling her hair. Thankfully, she's got a fresh set of clothes on. She still looks pissed like... well, like a cat peed on her bed.

Okay, despite Santana's inadvertent crisis, it's still pretty funny.

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you," Quinn says, joining her on the couch. "That cat is an asshole."

"Told you I was a good judge of character," Santana shrugs, sitting up to make room for her. "I guess I should've told you about the incontinence, though. Tubbs is an old guy."

Quinn doesn't even react to the comment. She just curls up in a little ball at the end of the couch, head on the armrest, and moans.

"_Fuck_," she whines. "I'm so tired."

She looks slightly pathetic, with her eyes shut and her hair still soppy like some sort of wet, pale woodland creature. Santana feels something odd well up in her chest like-wait. Is that sympathy? That emotion isn't supposed to be in her repertoire.

"So, what, are we supposed to share this couch now?" she asks. She doesn't think that would be too wise.

"You can take the bed, if you'd rather," Quinn says sleepily, burrowing into the cushions.

Santana nudges her with her foot. "Rude."

"You know who's rude?" Quinn blinks her eyes open. "Lord Tubbington. He has absolutely no fucking manners."

"Do you hear yourself right now?" Santana asks, trying to refrain from laughing. It's amusing that a cat can make little miss strait-laced Quinn all potty mouthed. "Besides, don't pretend like you didn't completely have it coming, Fabray."

Quinn groans, tugging one of the blankets over her legs. "I know. And I don't even believe in karma."

It's a little surprising to Santana that Quinn's taking it all in stride. Maybe she's delirious because it's some assholeish hour in the morning. Maybe she's actually admitting that she was in the wrong. That would be unprecedented. Santana stares at her and Quinn stares right back for a few beats.

"Santana," she says, voice soft.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she says.

Whoa, Quinn. Way to completely stun her. "You're... What?"

Quinn purses her lips and sits up to face her. "Look, I was going to say something earlier at the bar, but then you had to go and..." she shakes her head. "Anyway, I'm sorry about everything that's happened. I don't regret what I did. You fucked me over and I acted in self-defense, but I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand. And I feel bad that you have to deal with all this bullshit, from work and from your jackass of a landlord and everything. It isn't fair."

Trust Quinn to convolute a simple apology. Santana looks at her skeptically. "Thanks, but I don't need a pity party from anyone but myself."

"I don't feel sorry for you," Quinn says. "Actually, I think it's amazing that you manage to accomplish so much and still seem to have a life. I'm just mad because you don't deserve to be treated like crap by anyone."

"Namely yourself?" Santana asks, raising an eyebrow.

Quinn doesn't break eye contact. "Including myself," she corrects. "Except for when I have to defend myself against your obnoxious words. Or fists."

Santana snorts.

"Which, let's face it, is about every other thing you say to me," Quinn says.

Santana nudges at her again with her foot and their legs remain touching. The move is probably a little risky, given Santana's apparently raging hormones, but it feels nice to stretch her legs. And if Quinn's warm, smooth leg just happens to be laying right there, well then that's a bonus.

"I like it when you defend yourself," Santana admits, surprising herself with the words.

A smile tugs at Quinn's lips. "I figured. I mean, you do attack me more than anyone else we know, including manhands, despite the fact that I know you don't really hate me."

"Don't get ahead of yourself now, blondie," Santana warns.

"But it's okay, because I don't hate you either," Quinn adds.

Not a difficult achievement, considering no one could possibly hate this face for too long, but Santana will take the quasi-apology. And the power that comes along with being on the receiving end.

"So charming," she smiles. "Apology accepted."

Quinn looks pleased with herself.

"But don't go on thinking you don't still owe me a thousandfold for what you did," Santana continues. "I may forgive you, and yeah, some peace around here might even be uncharacteristically pleasant, like your singing voice, but I do still have my pride."

"Of course you do," Quinn rolls her eyes.

"Good, just needed to make that clear," Santana says, fluffing up her pillow.

Quinn watches her with half-lidded eyes, clearly trying to battle sleep, then asks, "So how do I owe you?"

Thank you, Fabray. Exactly the question Santana wanted to hear. She smirks.

"First of all: full and open access to your wardrobe. But only the sexy outfits. None of that earthy, flowery Martha's Vineyard stuff you own. Not interested." What she means to say is she couldn't pull it off half as well as Quinn does, but she would never voice that blasphemy.

"Fine. Anything but the Burberry dress," Quinn says around a yawn. "I just got that tailored for a conference. And only if I get to wear your things too."

Somehow, the thought is hilarious. But whatev, Santana can live with that.

"Deal," she says. "Secondly…"

She goes on to list demands until Quinn succumbs to her sleepiness and conks out on her, sprawled on her side and taking up far more space on the couch than she should. Santana's too tired to object, so she just curls up against Quinn's legs and falls asleep before she can take notice of how closely they're laying.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Thank you again (times a million) for the wonderful reviews. I cherish each and every one of them. I'm also just going to go ahead and apologize right now for the cliffie. I promise to write up and post the next chapter as soon as I can.

* * *

><p>The next day, they're both cranky, mostly because of the lack of sleep and the discomfort of having to share a couch, but also because, well, they're them. But the air between them is calmer and Quinn at least smiles at Santana over breakfast. It's actually pretty impressive. Quinn is the furthest thing from a morning person Santana can possibly imagine. Seriously, it's bad. Like worse than Mercedes when someone touches her hair or steals her tater tots.<p>

Santana rewards Quinn's good behavior by making her coffee the way she likes it, and Quinn positively glows, practically more than when her eggo was preggo.

Over the next few days, the tension that had been building between them since the Berry kitchen fiasco dissipates and gives way to their old, teasing sort of tension.

It's kind of nice. As much as Santana finds pleasure in pissing Quinn off, she doesn't mind having her friend back, or seeing her laugh every once in a while either.

The two of them fall into a routine, like two really functional roommates. Heaven forbid Santana ever use the term _married_-it isn't in her vocabulary.

They do their morning jam and then Santana sees Quinn at the coffee shop (she's very slowly and slyly weaning her off espresso shots and Quinn is none the wiser). With no work at the bar that week, Santana only has to be at the store and the occasional class, so she's home early every day. Which, okay, isn't too bad. At least it gives her time to catch up on her readings for class and work on new songs for when she does eventually get her gig back.

In the evenings, Santana loiters around the apartment and does either of those things while Quinn spreads out her binders on the coffee table and taps away at her laptop.

It's amusing to see the different ways Santana can distract Quinn with her singing. Sometimes, Quinn doesn't even look up from her screen, just stops typing. Other times, she pulls away from her laptop and her eyes fall shut. And sometimes, and this is Santana's favorite, Quinn completely abandons her work to stare up at her.

Santana can probably develop a scale to gauge how good she is based on the intensity of Quinn's reactions.

By Thursday night, though, Santana's done enough singing and her brain is literally starting to hurt from too much Yeats.

She lowers her book and watches Quinn flip lazily through channels on the TV. Even little miss workaholic has given up.

For some reason, probably because she's a masochist (judging from her career), Quinn chooses the most depressing shit ever to watch on TV. Right now, she's got it on an ancient rerun of _Extreme Makeover: Home Edition_, that show where they give disadvantaged people unnecessarily large houses. Santana thinks it's stupid. How the fuck are you going to find the time to clean like fifty rooms when you have seven disabled children?

"You better change that channel before the reveal," she warns.

"Why?" Quinn asks, eyes glued to the screen. "That's the best part."

Santana throws her book down on the coffee table, not bothering to mark the page.

"Do I need to remind you of that one time you started sobbing when they gave that little girl a Cinderella bed?"

"I didn't sob," Quinn protests. "I teared up."

"If by teared up you mean wept like a child, okay," Santana says.

Quinn glances over at her. "Nobody's as bad as you are."

"What, at weeping? Only when my blood alcohol level is twice the legal limit. You, on the other hand, cry over princess bedrooms. It's pathetic."

"You're a hypocrite," Quinn says evenly.

Santana shrugs. "I tell it like it is. Anyway, speaking of alcohol, I'd like some."

Quinn peels her eyes away from the TV to raise a questioning eyebrow at her.

"We should go out," Santana says.

She needs to get out of this apartment. She's been sitting here staring at Quinn's face for four days straight, and also, it's making her depressed that she could be at the bar performing right now. _And_ she doesn't have a shift at the store tomorrow morning. This is the perfect opportunity.

"I have some wine we could crack open?" Quinn suggests, sitting up.

Santana makes a face.

"What a charming idea. We'll put on some golden oldies, get scandalously tipsy off your one bottle of wine, and play a riveting round of Disney Monopoly-maybe even finish off the night trading bible verses before we turn in at exactly 9:30. Be less adventurous, Q, please. You'll die young."

Quinn flushes. "That actually sounds like fun," she says.

"I needs to get my dance on," Santana complains.

"I have work in the morning."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Then don't drink, grandma. Simple."

Quinn's face scrunches up, like she's contemplating the death penalty.

Santana groans. She refuses to let this killjoy stop her from having a good time tonight, but she's not going out alone either.

"Come on," she says. She goes over to Quinn and pulls her from the couch. "Go put on a hot dress, sexy it up. Don't you think that sweet ass deserves some love from the ladies?" She slides a hand over Quinn's hip toward said ass and to her surprise, Quinn doesn't shove it off.

Instead, she glances down at Santana's arm and then back up at her, eyes darkening.

"I'm not interested in picking up random girls at bars," she says, voice barely above a whisper.

Santana's too distracted by the fact that she's _touching Quinn's ass_ to consider what that even means. The proximity between them is making her skin feel warm all over. She knows that if she doesn't get away from Quinn, she's going to do something that, despite making her high school self proud, she'll probably regret.

She pulls away and forces her misbehaving hands to her sides.

"You're like the worst lesbian to ever have gayed," she says.

Quinn's arms come up to cross over her chest and she stands there stiffly.

"Okay," she says after a few beats. "Let's go then."

"Oh, thank god," Santana huffs, going to change out of her clothes before Quinn can take it back.

* * *

><p>"I forgot how much this dress rides up," Quinn says and tugs on the hem of her dress for the millionth time.<p>

"Will you quit whining?" Santana responds, pulling out her ID and smiling at the bouncer. "You aren't in the board room. Tonight, you can let that dress ride up to its heart's content."

Quinn shows her ID to the bouncer and follows Santana. "Indecent exposure is a crime, Santana."

"Not in here, it isn't," she yells and grabs Quinn's hand, pulling her toward the bar.

It's not too crowded yet, but it's dark inside and there are people bumping into Santana already. They make it to the bar and she signals to the bartender, ordering drinks for both of them.

"Remember when I said I'd let you stay sober tonight? Yeah, I totally lied," she calls, stepping closer so Quinn can hear her over the music.

Quinn just rolls her eyes, then looks around at the interior. "This place isn't too bad," she yells.

"Yeah, I figured I'd go upscale, so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities," Santana smirks and leans against the counter.

"Well, my delicate sensibilities do approve," Quinn says close to Santana's ear, breath warm against her skin.

It tickles a little and Santana laughs, her shoulder raising reflexively. "Good."

She hands Quinn her drink and takes a sip from her own, taking a look around to size up the action. She's only been here once before (contrary to Quinn's beliefs, she doesn't have that much of a life, with two jobs and school). The crowd is fairly diverse. It's a ladies-for-ladies night, but Santana spots a fair amount of gay men and straight couples there too. And a few girls she wouldn't mind getting her dance on with.

Still, she seems to be having an unreasonably difficult time keeping her eyes from going back to her date.

It's not her fault Quinn is the prettiest girl up in this joint. She's wearing a pale pink silk dress that gently hugs her curves and ends at mid-thigh. Paired with the black heels that she borrowed from Santana, it's making her legs look fucking phenomenal. Her eye make-up is dark and her hair is in its natural waves, feathery around her face and just barely grazing her shoulders.

They're standing close together enough that Santana could reach up and run a hand through the soft strands.

She does, because she can. And maybe because she's feeling a little territorial. She blames it on this living together business.

Quinn's kohl-rimmed eyes fly up to meet hers curiously.

Santana slides her hand to Quinn's nape. "You need a haircut," she calls. She can't think of anything else to say.

Quinn gives her a bemused look then sucks on her straw.

"I'm thinking of growing it out again," she says eventually. "It's been a while."

Santana frowns. "But I like it like this."

It's true. The haircut was her brainchild, after all. And no, Santana's ulterior motive for suggesting it in the first place was _not_ to make Quinn look less Stepford wife, more Stepford gay daughter. Absolutely not. Okay, maybe a little. Whatever, Santana totally called it.

"All the more reason," Quinn says and Santana can't help but punch her arm lightly.

"Ow," Quinn complains half-heartedly, grabbing her hand.

Just then, a tall brunette comes to stand beside Santana at the bar and smiles at her.

Well hello, Santana thinks, smiling back suggestively. It's not a surprise that the girls are coming at her already. She flips her hair over her shoulder, waiting for the undoubtedly crappy come on. People can't seem to compose themselves around her. But the girl doesn't say anything. Instead, her gaze drops to where Santana and Quinn's hands are still touching.

Her smile fades and she looks back up at them apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I didn't notice that you two…" the girl says, gesturing between them. Then she turns back around and walks off.

"Wait," Santana calls, but she's already out of hearing distance. "What the hell?"

An amused smile plays on Quinn's lips. She squeezes Santana's hand lightly.

"You might want to stop touching me if you want some action tonight," she says. "But that's okay," she leans closer until her lips brush Santana's ear. "She wasn't your type."

What's that supposed to mean?

Santana tugs away, getting annoyed that the proximity between them is apparently fucking up her game.

"I don't have a type," she yells. She's equal-opportunity, all the way. Isn't she?

This is the problem with hanging around a meddlesome ho like Quinn. Santana starts to commit sacrileges like doubting herself.

Quinn giggles brightly in response, the evil wench.

"I'm going to go dance," Santana shouts. "You stay boring over here."

"Fine," Quinn smiles into her drink and waves her fingers daintily at Santana.

Santana grabs her own cup from the bar and marches off. She sees a petite girl with a pixie haircut standing by herself at the edge of the dance floor and reaches for her arm.

"You. Let's dance," she commands. The girl's already large eyes grow wider and she nods, letting herself be pulled away by Santana.

* * *

><p>Four drinks later, Santana is still working the dance floor.<p>

By now, she's danced with what feels like every single person in this place. And she's starting to feel the effects of it, sweat gathering at her nape and her head feeling a little fuzzy. Well, a lot fuzzy.

She smiles and waves goodbye to her dance partner at the end of the song and an older, muscular dude comes up to her. He sways his hips in her direction and okay, Santana isn't that far gone.

"Sorry, R. Kelly, time for this honey to recharge," she shouts at him and he shrugs and moves on to the next unsuspecting person.

Santana swears that no bar scene is complete without that one shady creepster there by himself.

She makes her way through the crowded dance floor toward the bar. She lost sight of Quinn a while ago, sometime between dance partner number six and seven. The last time Santana saw her, Quinn was engrossed in a conversation with some chick dressed in an honest-to-god pantsuit.

Trust Quinn to find the one person in here she could talk shop with.

The bartender comes over to the counter and Santana orders a beer, because she needs to ease off the strong stuff. Now that she isn't dancing anymore, she's starting to notice that her head is slightly spinning and it's making her dizzy.

When she gets her drink, she plops down on a stool and takes a few big sips, trying to cool herself down. Santana hasn't been out like this in a few months, not since Brittany's been away. Loath as she is to admit it, she's a little out of practice.

She turns around and surveys the crowd, trying to find Quinn. She spots her right near the loudspeakers with... what the hell, is she _still_ with Pantsuit?

This time, though, the chick has somehow managed to convince Quinn to dance and she's got an arm around her waist, hand pressing into her lower back. Their faces are close together and they seem to be continuing the conversation they were having earlier.

Quinn throws her head back and laughs at something the girl says into her ear.

Something twists in Santana's stomach.

Has she taught Quinn nothing about meeting people in clubs? She has basically one rule: never spend more than ten minutes with the same person unless you'd fuck them sober. And Quinn is absolutely not having sex with this girl, sober or nearly fucking comatose.

Santana finishes off her beer and pushes herself off the bar, heading toward them.

"Hello there," she announces when she gets there, smiling sweetly.

They both glance up at her at the same time, faces curious, and Pantsuit tightens her grip around Quinn.

How cute. How exciting that she doesn't realize Santana is going to cockblock her hard right now.

"So sorry to interrupt," Santana says smoothly, not apologetic in the least. She wraps her fingers around Quinn's forearm and tugs. "But I need to steal this one."

Quinn frowns, but she easily lets herself be pulled away and Santana feels something like victory. She isn't sure, because the tipsiness is making it increasingly difficult to pinpoint her emotions.

"Is everything okay?" Quinn calls over the noise, studying her face. She touches Santana's arm and it makes warmth blossom across her already heated skin.

Santana nods.

"It's our song, Q," she lies. She has no idea what song is even playing. All she knows is that she wants that bitch away from her date. She steps closer to Quinn and their hips graze. "Dance with me."

Pantsuit watches them with her eyes narrowed, clearly confused. Santana slides her arms around Quinn's waist. Just to make things clear. She can play the jealous girlfriend part fairly well. Too well, maybe, she thinks as possessiveness fills her veins.

Quinn's hands come up to grasp Santana's hips and she turns to the girl.

"I'm sorry, Lexie," she yells. "I have to go, but it was nice meeting you."

Pantsuit looks severely disappointed at those words, and who wouldn't be? Santana smirks triumphantly against Quinn's shoulder.

"Well, you have my number," Lexie yells, resigned. "I look forward to your call."

Quinn nods. She doesn't even finish watching the girl walk off before she turns her head back toward Santana.

"Why'd you do that?" she asks.

"_I look forward to your call_?" Santana asks, ignoring the question. "Who talks like that? Are you trying to date Ms. Pillsbury?"

Quinn frowns. "What? No. We were really hitting it off."

Santana pulls her close, closer than she lets anyone else get.

"Shut up. I was trying to rescue you from the inevitably awkward moment you turn her cheaply tailored ass down. Nobody should dress like that unless they're trying to sell a used car, or steak knives."

Quinn's grip on her hips tightens, making her shirt bunch up and start to pull free from her skirt.

"Who said I was turning her down?" she asks.

"Me," Santana says directly into Quinn's ear. It's meant to be a whisper but it comes out more like a gasp, because their bodies are touching now and it's a sensory overload, Quinn's chest pressing lightly against hers. The sensation makes Santana dizzy and she can't help but run her hands up Quinn's back, fingers slipping over the satiny material of her dress. She feels Quinn shiver in response.

Quinn moves one hand from Santana's side to slide over the base of her spine. The touch is light but infinitely intimate, and in addition to making Santana lose her breath, it makes what sound like alarm bells go off in her head. But the liquor in her system effectively shuts them up.

"Besides," Santana adds as she moves against Quinn, hips vaguely matching the rhythm of the music, "she wasn't your type," she mocks.

Quinn stops dancing and her entire body stiffens against Santana's.

Santana doesn't know what it is-maybe it's the way Quinn freezes up, or the proximity between them right now, or the alcohol-but it suddenly hits her what those mocking words, whispered into her ear earlier that night, really meant.

Quinn wants to be her type.

No, Santana thinks as she replays the night and how nobody in this place, despite how many girls hit on her and how many people she danced with, came close to making her feel this way. This bewildering combination of elated and on edge and hot. So heart pounding, face burning, panty twisting fucking hot.

Quinn _is _her fucking type.

Santana starts, reeling from the epiphany, and her heel slips on something wet on the floor. It makes her stumble a little and Quinn's arms tighten around her momentarily to steady her.

As soon as Santana's found her footing, Quinn pulls away.

"You're drunk," she says, something like disappointment in her voice.

"I'm not," Santana shakes her head. "Come on, the song isn't over yet." She tries to move closer, but Quinn steps away again and narrows her eyes.

"Quinn," Santana protests. "Yeah, okay, I'm tipsy. But I'm not drunk. How else would I be standing here so calmly in front of you, no tears?"

Her attempt at a joke falls flat. Quinn just looks nervous or confused or something. Santana doesn't know, but she thinks she feels the same way. Which is fucked up, but welcome to the carnival of fucked-upedness that is her life. Exhibit A: everything that's happening tonight.

"We should leave," Quinn says abruptly. She doesn't wait for a response from Santana, just quickly turns on her heels and starts weaving her way through the dance floor.

Santana blinks, startled by the reaction, and follows after her.

"Hey, slow down!" she yells, not wanting to lose her in the crowd. It's pointless, because Quinn is too far ahead to hear. Santana hurries behind her all the way to the exit.

The night is cold when she steps outside the club and Quinn is already standing at the curb, facing the street. Her arms are wrapped around her shivering body.

"_Quinn_," Santana calls. She walks over and reaches a hand out to touch her back. To her surprise, Quinn doesn't pull away or like, punch her in the crotch, but she visibly tenses.

"Will you cool it?" Santana asks. "We'll get you home. No need to get your tits all worked up over a little dance."

The words are partly true, partly an attempt to stifle her own emotions. But they don't seem to have much of an effect on Quinn, who still doesn't react.

Santana steps closer, feeling a need to be near her, and presses up against her back.

"Look, Q…" Santana starts to say, but just as she starts to wrap an arm around her, Quinn jerks away and turns to face her.

"_Stop_ messing with me, Santana," she yells.

Santana's about to yell right back when she notices that Quinn's eyes are suspiciously wet.

She blinks in shock. "What?" she asks.

Quinn's brow knits and she looks away.

"Wait," Santana says. "What do you mean, stop messing with you?"

"Don't play dumb," Quinn says. She wipes furiously at a tear that falls onto her cheek, like she can't believe it's there.

Santana sort of can't either. Yeah, she's seen Quinn cry before-they all had their glee club sing and cry Schue a river moments, and then college had its ups and downs-but never when it directly related to herself. It's surprising, because Quinn prides herself on holding it together, and it also makes Santana feel like she got shot in the fucking stomach. Which kind of makes her wish she had experience with that sort of bodily injury, just so she could know how the hell to react right now.

And now she's a crazy person.

"Quinn, stop crying," she says tersely. She can't think of anything else to say.

Quinn laughs incredulously. "Yeah, like that'll help get me out of the world of misery that is _being around you_."

"Hey, no drama, ladies!" the bouncer shouts from the entrance of the club.

Quinn groans and stalks down the street, heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk. Santana follows her.

What's worse than the fact that any of this drama is even happening is that Santana feels herself reacting to it, dread welling up inside her. It's one thing for Quinn to be mad at her, to slap or yell at her. It's an entirely new and terrifying thing for Quinn to be hurt and cryptic.

"I realize you may sound sane to yourself right now, Fabray," she calls, "but I'm a regular person and I need words that actually make sense."

Quinn steps off the sidewalk and onto the street, whirling around to face Santana.

"You're unbelievable," she says. "I'm sorry, Santana. I thought I could grin and bear it, but I guess I overestimated my ability to deal with your bullshit. Because one second you're attacking me, and the next you're my friend, and the next you're all over me like I'm some cheap one-night thrill."

"It's not like I can help it," Santana protests, stepping onto the street. "Have you met you? You're the most annoying person alive."

Quinn throws her hands up. "See? Why am I even trying to reason with a drunk girl? I'm going home." She purses her lips and turns to wave down a cab.

Santana wants to scream in frustration. She wants Quinn to stop talking, and crying, and to stop looking so fucking beautiful, standing there in her rumpled dress with her hair sticking to the tears on her face. She wants to stop feeling like her heart is collapsing in on itself with emotion for this infuriating girl.

She grabs Quinn's outstretched arm, tugging her close.

"I'm not fucking drunk," she growls, and then she kisses her.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Reviewers, I love you all. Thank you for bearing with me and for sticking with this story. Here is your chapter, a tiny bit earlier than usual.

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><p>It takes Quinn about three agonizing seconds to respond to the kiss, her body stilling against Santana's, and then she whimpers and kisses her back so hard Santana nearly topples over.<p>

It's a good thing Quinn's hands come up to hold her in place, or Santana's ass would be on the pavement.

Santana's disoriented for a moment, heart racing almost painfully in her chest, but she recovers quickly and lifts her hands up to cup Quinn's face. She kisses her hard, wound up from the fight, not sure how long this will last-not sure why it's happening at all, but too worked up to care. She suppresses a moan, tilting her head to get a better angle, and her thumb slips a little on Quinn's cheek. The wetness there only serves to rev up the insane, inexplicable want she feels for Quinn, and she presses closer.

Santana is stunned by how good Quinn's mouth feels moving against her own, hard and soft and searching all at once. And how quickly, so much more quickly than usual, her lungs begin to tighten and ache, like they're devoid of air.

As if on cue, Quinn pulls away, gasping for breath.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, meeting Santana's eyes. Her own are glazed over, pupils blown.

Santana has no idea.

"Kissing you," she breathes, kissing Quinn's chin and then recapturing her reddening mouth. She slips her tongue past the full, wet curve of Quinn's lower lip. She can taste a hint of the sweet Jack and coke that she was drinking earlier, but mostly she tastes _Quinn_ and it's addictive. Too addictive. Her hands slide to Quinn's nape, fingers sinking into her hair, and she licks the last traces of whiskey from her mouth.

Quinn responds by whimpering again-goddamn, that sound will be the death of Santana-and pressing her lips just as bruisingly against Santana's. Like she can't help herself.

The sound of a man yelling suddenly and rudely jerks them apart, and they turn toward the source of the disturbance. It's the cab that Quinn was trying to flag down earlier.

"Want a ride or not?" the driver shouts through his window, impatient.

No, asshole. Santana would like to stand right here and kiss Quinn into oblivion all night. But Quinn has the presence of mind to call "yes" back to him. She pulls away from Santana and goes to tug the car door open.

They climb in and as soon as Quinn's told the cabbie where to go, Santana doesn't waste any time pulling her close again, because it's already felt like an eternity since their last kiss. Because it feels like everything will fall apart again if she doesn't keep kissing Quinn.

Quinn looks at her with only a hint of hesitation for a beat before she leans in meet her lips.

They kiss almost the same way they exchange words, rough and biting. Santana wants to shove Quinn up against something hard, to still her under the assault of her kisses. But when she grasps at her shoulders, Quinn pushes her hands away and crawls into her lap. Despite its simplicity, it's probably the sexiest thing Santana's ever experienced. Her head feels fuzzy as Quinn's warm weight settles on her thighs and she leans in to nip at Santana's lips. All she can manage to do in response is slide her hands up the back of Quinn's bare thighs and hold her in place.

"Why the fuck haven't we done this before?" she gasps.

"Because you're an idiot," Quinn says, fingers tightening around the material of Santana's blouse before she kisses her again.

Santana doesn't know why she's the idiot here. As far as she's concerned, both of them are. And besides, right now she can't begin to consider the significance of making out with _Quinn_, her childhood friend and current bane of her existence, in the backseat of a goddamn cab and with more passion than she ever thought she possessed. All she knows is that there's no earthly or godly force that could pull her away from Quinn and her intoxicating mouth right now.

Except maybe:

"Hey!" the cabbie interrupts loudly. "You can't do that in this car!"

Quinn drags her lips away instantly. She stares down at Santana for a second and then her eyes widen, like she's just now starting to realize what her lips and hands have been doing for the past five minutes.

"Oh my god," she says.

Santana's going to throttle that cockblock of a cab driver.

"If you want your money, you'll shut up and drive," she snaps at him. She glances back up at Quinn, but the damage is already done. She's frozen in place.

"We should stop," she says to Santana, voice still mostly breathless.

Yes, they probably should, but Santana doesn't think she's ever been more worked up. The self-control that she always prided herself on has flown so far out the window it's practically in Jersey. She has to struggle to collect her wits.

"Quinn," Santana says. She slides her hands to Quinn's waist and maneuvers her so that she's mostly off her lap, so that the cab driver doesn't have an aneurysm or drive them to the police station. She moves closer to nuzzle her ear, and Quinn doesn't pull away.

"This is the first time in like a year we've gone ten minutes without biting each other's heads off," Santana mumbles. "If you make me stop kissing you right now, I can't be blamed for what I might do or say. Do you really want to risk that?"

Instead of waiting for an answer, she tips Quinn's chin up and captures her lips again. Quinn, though her body is stiff, lets her.

This time, it's a complete contrast to their previous kisses. Quinn is slower to respond, mouth more slack. Santana takes her time opening her up, careful to be gentle. Her hand comes up to rub Quinn's side. The feeling brings back those alarm bells she heard earlier, because never would she be so patient and tentative with another girl. Because kissing Quinn like this is doing more for her, turning her on even more, making something twist in her chest. _Because Quinn is different_, a traitorous voice whispers inside her head.

"Santana," Quinn mumbles warningly against her lips.

"Shut up, Q," Santana says, slightly terrified. She refuses to talk right now. Not with the way her mind is rebelling.

Quinn pulls away. "No, we're here," she says, nodding toward the window of the cab.

Santana glances up and sure enough, they're pulling up to Quinn's building.

She forces herself to extract her hands from where they've somehow ended up, high on Quinn's torso, very close to her chest. Great. She was practically groping the girl. It's yet another glaringly obvious detail Santana seems to have missed tonight. She swings the car door open and climbs out of the cab, leaving Quinn to settle the tab.

The doorman gives her a simple, discreet nod as he lets her in. Santana appreciates the tact, because she can't begin to imagine what she looks like right now. If it's anywhere near how she feels, then it's a combination between run over by a moving van and like a John who couldn't afford a full night.

She goes to grab the elevator and Quinn walks up behind her after a few moments. They stand there side by side for several awkward seconds, neither turning to look at the other.

"I hope you didn't tip the jackass," Santana says finally into the silence.

Quinn bursts out laughing.

"What?" Santana retorts. The elevator dings to signal its arrival. "Last I checked, blueballing wasn't in the cabbie job manual."

"Oh, you've checked that?" Quinn asks teasingly, following her into the elevator.

Santana shrugs and stabs the button for the fourth floor.

"Living in New York, I…"

She glances up at Quinn and her voice stops working.

Quinn looks… well, she looks thoroughly fucked. A small smile is playing on her lips, but her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are dark. Santana isn't blind, or stupid, or any combination of those things. She's always known that Quinn was pretty—it only takes a glance in her direction for anyone with half a brain to realize that she's pretty—but right now, Quinn looks fucking stunning. Maybe it's the hormones, or the fact that Santana is the one who did this to her, she doesn't know.

It takes just about everything in her willpower not to kiss her again, right here.

Quinn quirks a curious eyebrow at her.

Santana clears her throat and tries to remember what she was saying, or where she is, or like, her name. She needs Quinn to stop looking at her with those eyes.

"Whatever. He was an ass," she manages.

She knows that Quinn knows her well enough to realize just how far gone she is, but to her credit, Quinn just smiles fondly in response. Still, it's a relief that they arrive at their floor just then. Quinn walks ahead and Santana follows, waiting for her to unlock the door.

When they enter the apartment, it's dark inside and it feels starkly quieter. The door sounds loud as it clicks shut behind them. They stand in the entrance, facing each other. Quinn's eyes search Santana's.

In a different life, if she was a different girl, Santana might have asked Quinn how she was feeling. Because truth be told, something about the way Quinn has been looking at her, about the way she reacted tonight, about her tears and how she kissed Santana back—urgently and unhesitatingly, like she couldn't stop herself—has Santana wondering _why _and _how long_. But something that's been building inside, a dark fear, stops her. Santana has tried emotions before. Emotions fuck things up. And they've been friends for too long, have too much history, for her to allow that to happen. So instead, Santana does what she knows best. She steps closer and presses Quinn into the door.

"Santana, wait," Quinn stops her. Her hands come up to grip Santana's wrists and she pulls them away.

The exasperation that only Quinn manages to incite returns to Santana's veins.

"Why?" she demands, failing to keep the frustration from coloring her voice.

Quinn nudges her further away, so that their bodies are no longer in contact. The loss of warmth between them is jarring, like the quiet in this apartment.

"Because I think we should talk about this first," Quinn says carefully.

If Santana thought her defenses were up earlier, she was wrong, because she can feel them all come up right now.

"What are we, fucking dating?" she asks, frowning. "No. I want you. Isn't that enough?"

She knows it's the wrong thing to say almost as soon as the words leave her mouth, but there's nothing she can do to stop them. She has a way with words. It's just that sometimes they're completely the wrong ones. The soft look on Quinn's face disappears and her expression closes off. She recoils slightly.

"Wait," Santana blurts. "I didn't..."

"No," Quinn interrupts, her tone terse but unnervingly calm. "It's okay, Santana. I get it." She purses her lips and shakes her head so slightly it's almost imperceptible. "But I can't play along."

The sudden lack of emotion in Quinn's eyes where seconds ago there was warmth is unsettling. There are a few beats of silence between them, but Santana is too taken aback to think of anything to say.

Quinn breathes out, more visibly than audibly, her shoulders falling.

"I need to go to bed," she says with finality. She breaks eye contact and brushes past Santana.

Santana turns around quickly, but something stops her from reaching out and stopping Quinn. Anything she says or does now will only make things infinitely more complicated. If she denies Quinn's words, she'll have to explain herself when she hardly knows where her own two feet stand. And if she agrees, well then, she's admitting to being the asshole that she really is. Before Santana knows it, the door to Quinn's room is clicking shut, and her chance, if she ever had one to begin with, is lost.

"_Fuck_," she groans, dropping her head back against the door.

Fuck.

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><p>When Santana wakes up the next morning, the apartment is shrouded in silence. She blinks her eyes open slowly and stares up at the ceiling. The sunlight streaming into the room is dim, which means it's still early enough that Quinn won't have left for work yet, but Santana doesn't hear a sound coming from any of the rooms. The blessed emptiness that filled her mind during sleep is quickly being replaced by images from the previous night, and a dull ache starts at her temples, not so much a hangover but an anxious tension.<p>

She groans and sits up, blankets a mess around her from the tossing and turning that went down last night. It took her a while to fall asleep, and even then it was fitful and disjointed. She runs a hand through her bedraggled hair and grabs her glasses from the coffee table, slipping them on as she tries to quell her sleep-dizziness. And the memory of Quinn's eyes last night, first dark with desire and then cold with contempt.

Santana thought her head might be more clear minus the alcohol and raging lust.

Clearly, she's incapable of thinking.

The preoccupation with Quinn Fabray is getting slightly ridiculous. Santana hardly recognizes herself anymore. She suddenly has a newfound sympathy for every lovesick idiot she ever bitched about for trailing after Quinn, because right now she's in the same fucking boat.

She shakes her head and stands up to get herself some water from the kitchen. She stops in her tracks when she walks through the double doors.

Quinn is sitting there, motionless, at the kitchen table, fully dressed in her work clothes. She's staring blankly at a sheet of paper and there's a coffee cup sitting in front of her.

Santana blinks.

"Quinn?" she asks.

Quinn jumps at the sound and her eyes fly up to Santana.

"Jesus, Santana," she breathes, a hand coming up to her chest. "You scared me."

As fucked in the head as Santana feels right now, Quinn's daintiness is still amusing. She walks over to a cabinet, pulling a glass out.

"Welcome to my life every morning," she says, voice scratchy with sleep.

Quinn doesn't quip back. She says, "I tried not to wake you. I know I can be loud. It's just-."

"Wasn't you," Santana interrupts, leaning back against the counter and taking a sip from her water. Her other arm comes up to cross over her torso.

Quinn stares at a spot to the right of Santana's actual face for a few short seconds before she goes back to not-reading whatever it is that's in her hands.

Santana clears her throat and downs the rest of her water. There's a tension between the two of them that feels foreign, and the way Quinn refuses to meet her eyes isn't making it any better.

"Listen," Santana starts, "don't throw a tantrum, but about last night-"

"Santana," Quinn says quickly, warningly. Her paper drops from her hands and finally, she looks up at Santana completely alertly.

"You were right," Santana continues. "I was drunk."

For a second, just for a momentary blink of an eye, Quinn's face falls. And then, just as quickly, her deadened expression comes back in full force.

"You know what, Santana?" she responds, pushing her chair away from the table. She stands and reaches for her bag. "That's okay," she says, coming up to her, "because I don't know what I was thinking, anyway."

Before Santana can say anything, Quinn brushes past her and walks out of the kitchen. The front door is slamming shut not long after.

Santana stands there, stunned.

Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Expletives flood her mind and she wants to break something, anything, in frustration. This time, though, the frustration is aimed solely at her moronic self. When and how did she allow herself to become the biggest fucking screw-up on the face of the planet?

And since when has she even cared? Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she misinterpreted Quinn's reaction last night for actual feelings, because the way Quinn completely wrote it off just now was unfeeling at best. The thought makes something dark well up inside Santana's chest.

She frowns, and then she notices Quinn's leftover coffee cup, still sitting on the kitchen table. It's mostly untouched, filled almost to the brim with milky liquid. She goes to pick it up. The fact that she knows the drink is sweet enough to give her diabetes doesn't stop her from taking a sip, from pressing her lips against the brim.

Santana doesn't know if it's the odd familiarity of the sweetness that she has to force down her throat, or the warmth that fills her from the simple thought that she's drinking from Quinn's mug, but she's all of a sudden overwhelmed by a need to fix this. To make things right. She lowers the cup and stares at it for several seconds, scans the faded _NYU Stern_ logo, and then she smiles. She thinks she knows how.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**: Late, late, late. I really am sorry about the terrible hiatus. I know it's no fun. I was traveling for just about the entirety of this month and though I thought I'd be able to do it, it was nearly impossible for me to write/post. But I'm home now, and my posting schedule should be going back to normal. I heard from a few readers who were curious about that, and I just wanted to mention again that I aim for a chapter a week, usually on Saturday or Sunday. For future reference, though, you can check my Tumblr for occasional status updates if you'd like. The link is on my profile page. :) And I wanted to say again: I love you all, river deep, mountain high. The feedback and support I've received for this little baby fic has been incredible. It makes me happier than you could imagine. Now, here is your chapter. Hands down the most difficult to write yet!

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><p>By the time Santana makes it up to Quinn's little cubicle, hidden away on the ninth circle of corporate hell, she no longer gives a rat's ass about making things better.<p>

It took speaking to three security guards, going up and down two different sets of elevators, and then flirting so hard with a receptionist she nearly bribed the woman with sexual favors just so she could even walk into Quinn's department without an appointment. Then there was the maze of cubicles.

Santana likes her RPG games just fine, but she prefers for them to stay virtual.

She promptly forgets all of this when she turns a corner and sees Quinn sitting at her desk. Quinn is perched on the edge of her chair, brow all furrowed, back stiff-straight and eyes trained on her computer. Or _computers_. Santana can't tell, because there are four different screens and two keyboards up there—it's no fucking wonder the girl is scary good at multitasking.

What makes Santana and her lungs really stop, though, is the lip biting. Quinn is chewing down on her bottom lip as she glances between a stack of papers in front of her and her computer screens.

Santana _used_ to associate the gesture with late-night study sessions. That was when Quinn was still in school and she would spend finals week at Santana and her roommate's apartment, mainly to ensure that she herself didn't fall asleep cramming or stay asleep in the morning.

On her (many, many) study breaks, Santana would watch Quinn as she flipped through stacks of flashcards, forehead creased in concentration and teeth sinking into her lips. Mostly, Santana would wonder where they were going to end up—after—because Quinn's future was clear as crystal and hers... wasn't. It would be a blatant lie and generally uncharacteristic to claim that some part of her didn't also wonder what it would be like to shove those books aside and kiss Quinn. But Santana used to blame it on the blur of sex and hormones that was her life back then. And besides, Quinn had a girlfriend at the time—Santana's roommate, in fact, who would often be sitting right there. Needless to say, she had to tamp down on any and all inappropriate urges fairly quickly.

But now, college relationships and college immaturity aside, Santana can't think of a reason to tamp down on anything. Not more than twelve hours ago, she was violating that same mouth with her own, and the new sense memory is enough to make a heavy, possessive, _hot_ feeling settle low inside her. As if Quinn bringing attention to her lips wasn't enough to prime Santana as it was.

So she, at twenty-three and very female, is going to turn into a thirteen-year-old boy every time she sees Quinn from now on. That's perfectly healthy.

Santana shakes the disturbing thought from her head and forces herself to stop reminiscing and lurking around the corner like some sort of ex-con. She clears her throat.

"It should _not _have been that hard to find you, Mad Money."

Quinn's head whips around and that indecent mouth of hers falls open in surprise.

"Santana," she hisses. "What the _hell_ are you doing here? These are private offices. Legal's going to be up my ass."

"No lie. It was like searching the Forbidden Forest," Santana says, ignoring Quinn's mini-tirade. "Nice view."

Quinn has no view. Her entire workspace is composed of three flimsy, gray cubicle walls. The only semblance of character anywhere is a small set of photographs arranged in neat rows on one of the walls.

Quinn gives her an eye-roll so hostile Santana literally feels her body temperature drop. The girl should really consider a side career in prisoner intimidation or something. At the very least, she should star in a few horror slash suspense B-movies. Santana would watch that shit so hard and fast. The same way she'd—

"What do you want?" Quinn asks impatiently.

Right. Santana was here for a reason other than to gawk and fantasize about Quinn playing a serial killer. She lifts the coffee cup in her hand, smiling wryly.

"You stormed out without your coffee this morning. I know your head can't physically stay attached to your body without caffeine, so I thought I'd save everyone the trauma," Santana says. "And," she adds carefully, "I know your favorite, so, uh. You know."

Jesus Christ. Thirteen.

Quinn looks at Santana and then down at the cup she's holding, and then she glances guiltily back at her desk. There, right near the bottom left computer screen, sits another coffee cup. The green and white logo is unmistakable.

Santana mock-gasps.

"Quinn Fabray, you corporate sell-out," she says. She shakes her head disapprovingly, moving to sit on the edge of the desk.

Quinn swivels around to face Santana. The tell-tale signs of amusement play on her face.

"Well, I couldn't just go without," she says in her smooth, sultry voice.

The fact that Santana can classify anything related to Quinn as 'sultry' is indication enough that she's past the point of no return.

"Well, two would be pushing it, don't—"

"I'll take it," Quinn interrupts, reaching for the cup greedily.

Santana smirks.

"Speaking of corporate," she says, exceedingly aware of their hands touching as she passes Quinn the drink. "Funny thing. I was under the impression that you graced me with your sometimes entertaining, always annoying presence at the store every morning because it was close to your work."

Quinn sips at the drink and stares at her over the rim of the cup.

"But," Santana adds, "I could've sworn I saw three Starbucks on the way over here. So I'm dying to know—other than getting to see this face, was there a reason you went out of your way?"

"I thought it was obvious," Quinn responds immediately. She watches Santana, guarded. "I was after someone."

Hold up. Santana's has an actual heart palpitation in response to Quinn's forwardness. Is she…?

"Who?" Santana demands.

Quinn takes another (torturously long) sip of the coffee, then she takes her sweet fucking time putting it down on her desk.

"Feinstein," she says finally, aloofly. "Of course."

Santana is stunned silent for a beat. Then she laughs. When she recovers, she says:

"Bullshit harder, Quinn."

Quinn only smiles back in response. It's sly and wicked and all the things she is and all the things Santana likes. It's this thought that makes her lean over, until they're almost nose to nose, and press a quiet, lingering kiss to her lips. Quinn lets her. Doesn't move at all, in fact. When Santana pulls away again, Quinn looks up, dazed.

"What are you doing?" she asks softly.

Santana should be collecting dimes for every time Quinn asks her that question and she doesn't know what to say.

"That wasn't part of the plan," she manages.

Quinn blinks and loses some of the glaze in her eyes. Gains some chagrin. She says, "So what was?"

Santana actually has a genuine answer to that, finally, so it's really no big surprise that Quinn's cell phone goes off right then.

Quinn looks apologetic. She grabs the phone from where it's sitting on her desk and answers with a curt, "Yeah?" As soon as she hears the person on the line, though, her expression softens.

"Hi," she says into the receiver, voice brightening. "I didn't realize it was ten already. No—I'm sorry. It's just that this isn't the best time."

Her eyes meet Santana's.

Santana crosses her arms and stares back pointedly. Damn right. Being ignored for whomever the fuck is making Quinn sound so saccharine isn't the best anything.

"Work. Yeah. I'm going to have to get back to you," Quinn says. "But I'm glad you called. I'll call back soon, okay?"

When Quinn's finally done spouting sickly pleasantries and hangs up the phone, Santana stands there, silently demanding an explanation.

None comes.

Instead, Quinn swivels back around to face her, eyes inquisitive, and asks, "So, the plan?"

"Hold up," Santana says, feeling a little off-balance, like she's two steps behind. "Who was that?"

"No-one important," Quinn responds. "And I really need to get back to work soon, so—"

Santana's eyes narrow. "Quinn. I live with you," she interrupts. "I've never heard you talk that way with anyone, except for Brittany and maybe Lord Tubbington. When you're on his good side."

"Fine," Quinn snaps, looking at her sharply. "It was Lexie."

Santana's puzzled for a second. And then...

"Lexie?" she asks, baffled. "Girl from the bar with the fashion sense of a lazy middle school principal, Lexie?"

Quinn's jaw clenches visibly. "Yes, Santana. We can't all dress like Cosmo centerfolds," she says. She checks her watch. Then she adds, more hesitantly: "She wants to take me out."

Suddenly, nothing about the situation is amusing or worthy of a quip. In fact, something that feels suspiciously like anger, white-hot and uncomfortable, settles inside Santana.

"You can't possibly be thinking of going," she says.

Quinn looks Santana straight in the eye. She studies her intensely for a few long moments, makes Santana feel like each and every one of her well-protected emotions is on full, chest-hurting display. Then, face and voice expectant, she asks, "Any reason why I shouldn't?"

The question is incredibly loaded. Quinn, in the best way she knows how, is asking Santana to put it all out there—precisely what she came here to do. That little trickster and her sneaky, trickster ways.

But now, the peace offering Santana originally had planned seems flimsy, insufficient for the significant pause that hangs between them. Coffee and a "_Can we go back, please?_" isn't exactly where her heart is anymore. It was plain stupid of her to assume it would stay in one place. This is Quinn.

So Santana's back to square one, and there isn't much on square one. Just stripped down, no-nonsense emotion. It means she has to blurt whatever's on her mind, and right now, that's nothing but a resounding:

"She isn't good enough for you."

Quinn doesn't even flinch. She exhales slowly, gathers up the pile of documents on her desk, and stands to face Santana. Her expression is nowhere near where it should be. Instead, she looks resigned.

"Neither is that reason," she says.

Santana frowns.

"What?" she asks, bewildered.

Quinn hugs her papers to her chest and steps into Santana's space. Her eyes look bigger this up close.

"You know, Santana. It's strange. Ever since college, you've somehow found a way to put down every single person I date. You attacked Lexie, and you don't even know her. Even when it was your own roommate, you had something catty to say. Plenty of somethings catty to say, actually," she says.

She pauses for a beat, as if to collect herself, clutching her papers closer.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?" she says. "That once, just once, I wish you would stop worrying so much about them and _look at me_?"

Santana stares, taken-aback. She doesn't know whether to defend herself—to try to explain why she is the way she is, why this deep fear of loss is so ingrained—or to grab Quinn and kiss some sense back into her.

Before Santana can do anything, though, Quinn pulls away and reaches for a folder on her desk.

"Now if you'll excuse me," she says, voice suddenly brusque and back to business, "I have a meeting to get to."

* * *

><p>The snub doesn't sit well with Santana. She leaves Quinn's office building feeling more utterly fucked than she did when she got there, which is a feat because she was under the impression that last night was about as bad in the fucked department as it got.<p>

She tries to cure her aggravation with shopping, but retail therapy just isn't as fun when you're nearly broke and four years post- a shoplifting phase. So she ends up going back to the apartment and sulking there until she has to leave for her shift at the bar.

When she gets home again later that night, the lights are off and Quinn's bedroom door is shut, so all Santana can do is crawl onto her couch and will herself to go to sleep.

By the next morning, the anger still hasn't simmered down. It doesn't help that Quinn is talking loudly on her cell phone with someone from work when Santana wakes up, and that she stays on the phone through Santana's shower and half of breakfast. When Quinn finally hangs up and drops her wretched Blackberry down on the kitchen table, she makes no attempt to apologize for her flagrant rudeness.

Santana frowns. After Quinn's little non-revelation yesterday, she knows—just _knows_—that the ball is in her court now, but she can't bring herself to go there. So instead, she says:

"Honey, could you please not bring your work home with you? It's detrimental to our family life."

There isn't a single iota of amusement on Quinn's face.

"I'm glad to hear your _hilarious_ self is back," she tells Santana and picks up a piece of burnt toast.

"Who said I was joking?" Santana retorts testily. She tries to fix the collar on her uniform. "Besides, it's Saturday morning. Shouldn't you be hibernating on the ceiling of a cave somewhere?"

"No," Quinn glares. "If I were a vampire, as you're so unsubtly suggesting, I'd at least be the type that sparkled under sunlight."

Santana can't help but snort into her glass.

"I have phone meetings with these foreign investors all day," Quinn explains.

"Of course," Santana says, finishing off her orange juice and standing up to leave. "So sorry I'll be missing that," she says without any actual remorse. On the contrary. She's actually incrediblygrateful she won't be seeing much of this infuriating blonde today. She's turning around to get her things from the counter when said infuriating blonde blurts:

"And I have that date tonight."

Santana stops in her tracks and turns back around to face Quinn.

"What?"

Is Quinn making some sort of game out of pissing Santana off?

"So don't wait up," is all Quinn says.

"I wasn't planning on it," Santana manages to respond through teeth she didn't even realize were gritted. "I hope you have a smashingly terrible time."

Quinn lifts her chin and looks downright petulant. "I didn't think you'd have a problem with it," she says.

Rather than respond to Quinn's blatant provocation, Santana forces her limbs to move again, forces herself to pick up her purse and head toward the door without a word or a glance backward.

* * *

><p>As it has a tendency to do, Santana's set at the bar that night is fairly reflective of her turbulent state of affairs.<p>

By her third angry number in a row, the audience starts to look a little unsettled.

By her fifth, her pianist eyes her warily.

"I run this show," she reminds him and walks back over to the mic, waiting expectantly for the opening notes.

She doesn't care that she'll probably overhear him complaining to the bassist later about how she had 'lady-friend problems'. At least this time he'd be partly right. (The rest of the time, Santana's just angry for angry's sake). But the constant, nagging thought of Quinn out on her date, talking and laughing and touching and being touched—_being touched_—is fuel enough for Santana not to give a shit about what anyone thinks tonight.

Later, she knows it was worth all the glaring and finger-wagging and singing herself completely raw when, at the end of her set, she feels a little less pressure in her chest as she walks off the stage.

It's past midnight when she makes it back to Manhattan and Quinn's block.

"So wait," Santana says into her phone as she walks in the direction of Quinn's building. Brittany's on the other end. "You're leaving Japan Wednesday, getting here Thursday?"

"I'm officially confused now," Brittany announces.

Santana shakes her head in exasperation. "You're the one getting on that plane, Britt. All I need to know is when you're coming over to get him."

Santana is referring to Lord Tubbington, thank all that is good and gracious. Finally, she'll be free of any and all cat-related responsibilities. She wasn't built for this sustaining helpless creatures business. Really, she'd fear for her future child's well-being if she wasn't planning on marrying a chick.

"It's the time zones," Brittany says. "They're confusing. Japan was confusing until I learned how to read. Now I'm fine."

"You read Japanese now," Santana says skeptically.

"They're just tiny drawings, Santana," Brittany replies, voice suddenly all hushed like she's telling her some sort of secret. "You just have to look really hard."

Santana nods at the doorman as he lets her in. She doesn't doubt that Brittany's interpreting _something_ from the Japanese text, she just fears what it is.

Brittany doesn't keep her curious for long. She says, "Most of the time, they're about a stick figure person who lives on a farm."

Santana smirks. "I always thought one of those things looked like a goat. Now tell me what time you're coming to get Tubbs."

It's terrifying, but for what feels like the first time in her life, Santana doesn't feel like talking to her best friend. It isn't even personal. Curling up with a tumbler of whiskey is just the only thing that sounds appealing to her right now.

"Five o'clock shark," Brittany says, unaware of her word error. "Wednesday. Or Thursday. Could be Friday."

"Jesus, Britt," Santana snaps, uncharacteristically impatient with her friend. She gets in the elevator and stabs the button for her floor.

"Whoa," Brittany retorts. "It's not my fault you're all sad panda because Quinn got laid tonight."

The implication alone is like a sucker punch.

"Wait," Santana demands. "How do you know about that?"

She means Quinn in general, not the outrageous part about her getting laid. Santana hasn't mentioned anything to Brittany about Quinn or her date or how it's fucking up her entire night. And week. And what looks to be her life.

"Uh. Quinn told me?" Brittany says. "Honestly, Santana. Use your brain."

Santana can't appreciate the irony of that statement when her subconscious is now filling that brain with images of Quinn and that wretched woman. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"And how often do you two talk, exactly?"

She wasn't aware there was some sort of secret girls' club going on between her two best friends.

"We text each other like at least five times. An hour," Brittany responds casually. "On average."

What even...

"Okay. That. I don't even want to know," Santana says, shaking her head. She walks out of the elevator when it gets to her floor and braces herself to face Quinn again.

Brittany's silent for a long moment, then she says, "It's mostly about you."

Santana fumbles so hard with her keys they almost end up on the floor.

Okay, Lopez. She pauses. Time to pull it together. She tightens her fist around the keys and takes a deep breath in. She absolutely refuses to accept that she's becoming this pathetic of a human being.

"I said I don't want to know," she says tersely, voice darker than she thinks it's ever been with Brittany. She can almost see her friend reeling in response.

"Jeez," Brittany says. She sounds taken-aback. "Then I won't tell you."

"Great," she responds like the asshole she is.

Santana turns the key in the lock, swinging the door open. The lights are off and it's suspiciously quiet inside. She raises an eyebrow. She kicks off her heels and switches her phone to the other ear so she can dump her purse, then goes into the kitchen. There's nobody in there either.

"Santana?" she hears distantly over the phone.

"Yeah," Santana responds, pressing the receiver closer to her ear, starting to feel the uneasy pressure in her chest from earlier seep back in. She heads toward Quinn's bedroom next. "Did your little texting buddy tell you she wasn't coming home tonight?"

She peers inside the room, but finds the bed still neatly made and no sign of Quinn. Something tightens inside her stomach.

"Nope," Brittany says. "Radio silence."

"I have to go," Santana says abruptly.

"Wait, but I haven't even—."

"Bye, Britt," she interrupts and hangs up on her, too distracted by her growing dread to care about the fact that she's probably being rude. She checks the time. 12:20. Immediately, she dials Quinn's number.

The phone rings and rings for what feels like hours, but there's no response.

"Quinn, you complete asshole," Santana says, and tries the number again. Still nothing.

She goes back into the living room and paces around, throws her phone on the coffee table and then picks it up again, irrationally nervous that she broke it.

What is it that normal people do in situations like this? Santana's lack of experience in the messy feelings realm is beginning to feel glaringly, ridiculously obvious. Actually, this whole thing is ridiculous, she decides. It's no wonder she steers so clear and wide of emotions.

It isn't even that she's _worried_ about Quinn, per se. She knows well enough that Quinn is a big girl and can take care of herself. No. It's that her jackass of a subconscious keeps telling her, _she's getting laid—someone other than you is touching her_, and it's making her feel like her vital organs have decided to stop working.

Lovely. Inducing organ failure. Yet another thing Quinn can check off her bucket list.

Santana forces herself to sit down on the couch before she faints or does something equally as crazy.

Twenty minutes of staring like a hawk later, she decides that, for her own sanity, the front door probably shouldn't be in her direct line of vision. In fact, neither should her cell phone. The only thing they're doing is serving as glaring reminders that Quinn isn't here and is therefore elsewhere.

Santana abandons them both and goes into the bedroom.

If Quinn doesn't plan on making use of her bed tonight, she'll gladly do so.

She strips off her blouse and jeans and crawls in, spreading out on her stomach. She doesn't bother going under the covers, knows that Quinn's scent all around her is the last thing she wants to deal with right now. But she does tighten her fingers around the soft fabric of the comforter, because she needs something to hold onto so that she doesn't feel quite so off-balance in this bed.

She lays awake there for a long time, waiting, trying to figure out how her heart seems to be pounding everywhere in her body, and feeling generally lower and more desperately jealous than she has in a long, long time.

Santana doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until a loud thump from outside the room startles her. She blinks, eyelids heavy.

Someone is at the front door, she notes dizzily. Quinn. And it sounds like she's struggling, because the thump that woke Santana up is followed by more of the same, and then some scratching. The tiny part of her that's actually coherent starts to get worried, but then she hears the door finally open and close. Along with a barely hushed curse about said door.

Not soon after, Quinn's familiar blonde self is standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

"What are you doing in my bed?" is the first thing she says.

Santana blinks up at her, needing a moment to process the words and what's happening and like, her overwhelming relief that Quinn is actually home and not in a ditch somewhere. Or worse, under someone else's covers.

When she's somewhat recovered, she says, "Keeping your side warm, honey-pie. Of course."

Quinn laughs brightly, surprising Santana with how delighted she sounds.

"Aren't you special?" Quinn croons. Her sibilants are terribly slurred.

Santana doesn't honor that with a response.

She turns to look at the bedside table. The red numbers on the clock read 2:37 AM. When she glances back up, Quinn is right by her side, standing next to the bed. Teetering, really. She doesn't look entirely stable. She smells worse.

"Holy shit, Q," Santana mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "Did you bathe in Southern Comfort?"

Quinn grins down at Santana and nods. Her face is flushed and her hair is escaping wildly from the black ribbon she used as a headband.

"You're totally drunk," Santana says, slightly amused. She rolls onto her back and stretches the sleep from her limbs.

"Just a little more than usual," Quinn responds distractedly. She makes no effort to hide the way her eyes roam Santana's body. "And _you_ are totally naked in my bed."

"Underwear and a tank top, Quinn. Doesn't actually qualify as naked, you know, outside of Sunday School."

Quinn shakes her head. "I am... _so_ much more experienced than you think I am."

And then she's climbing into bed with Santana, stumbling on her way in.

"Whoa, Jamie Foxx," Santana says, wide awake all of a sudden. She holds Quinn's arms to keep her steady. "Hold on. I think you might need some water and Advil before you go trying to prove your sexual prowess."

"And I think," Quinn says, hovering over her, voice smooth, "that for once, you need to shut your pretty mouth."

Santana's face heats up at the quasi-compliment. She'd enjoy it more, though, if Quinn's eyes weren't so glazed over with lord-knows-what proof liquor.

For some reason, it only just hits her how entirely uncharacteristic and not quite right this situation is. Quinn was out on a date, for hours, with someone she didn't know very well. And now she's outrageously, mindnumbingly hammered, more than Santana can remember her being since she graduated from college. Santana feels her blood go white-hot in her veins with protectiveness. She sits up suddenly, almost knocking their heads together.

"Did that bitch take advantage of you?"

Quinn stares back at her blankly for a few long seconds, lips parted, before she bursts out laughing, loud and melodic and so, so intoxicated.

"Lexie? No," Quinn says between giggles. "Quite the contrary. She was actually very nice. She listened to me whine for two hours about how this bitchy, gorgeous brunette is driving me crazy. Then she was nice enough to get in a cab with me and bring me all the way to my building. Isn't that nice?"

_No_ would have sufficed, really, but the _crazy_ part has Santana reeling.

"I'm driving you crazy?" she asks quietly.

Quinn leans closer again and cups Santana's face in her clammy hands.

"Miss Lopez, has anyone ever informed you that you are really very deficient in the emotional expression department?

Only Quinn could pull off a sentence like that with a blood alcohol level that's probably three times the legal limit.

"Very funny," Santana says, heart starting to pound heavily in her chest. Quinn is lightly tracing the edge of her bottom lip with her thumb and it's distracting.

"Yeah," Quinn nods. "Brittany really did a number on you."

"Hey," Santana says warningly, tensing up. "I get that you're drunk, but low blow."

"But I'm very serious," Quinn protests, putting on a mock-stern face, eyes growing a little more focused. Her hands slide down to Santana's bare shoulders. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to be your friend? When you won't even look at me without your ten million and one defenses up? God forbid I try to be anything more."

Now would be the perfect time for Santana to interject, to prove to Quinn that she _is_ capable of emotional expression, that she's just had to learn to be cautious about where and how and to whom, and that Quinn gets it the worst because—well—she's the hardest one of all. But before she has the chance to formulate a response, Quinn smiles wryly and says:

"But I know. You don't want to talk."

"Quinn, that's not—" she starts.

"Shh, that's okay," Quinn hushes her. She presses Santana back into the pillows and slides a smooth leg over her hips, until she's mostly straddling her. All she's wearing is a little black dress, no tights, so when she settles her weight down, her bare thighs and soft cotton panties come into contact with Santana's own. The heat between them makes Santana dizzy.

"Quinn," she says again, more breathlessly this time. She looks up at Quinn, inquisitive, hating that she has no control over her body's reaction to her. "What are you...?"

Quinn leans forward and kisses her. It's hard and messy and so good, but it would be better if Quinn didn't taste so much like cough syrup. Santana's hands come up to grip her arms and she nudges her away, breaking the kiss.

Quinn frowns, brow creasing unhappily.

"You're drunk," Santana says firmly.

"So were you," Quinn retorts. She grinds down against her hips and it makes Santana whimper and squeeze her eyes shut so that she doesn't react more strongly. She knows this is the liquor making Quinn act this way. She knows she's already let it go too far.

"Santana," Quinn says, one hand coming back to cup her cheek. "Look at me,"

Santana inhales, hating that it feels shaky coming into her lungs, and looks at Quinn. The clarity that she thought she saw in her eyes earlier is gone. Now they're back to hazy, half-lidded and dark.

"Do you still want me?" Quinn asks.

It's the last thing Santana expected to hear. Her eyes narrow.

"What?"

"Just answer the question," Quinn demands and presses into her again. This time, she's come forward enough that Santana can feel her panties right against her bare stomach, how hot and wet they are, when she grinds into her.

Santana doesn't even have to respond. Her whine is clearly good enough for Quinn because she smiles triumphantly, leans in and kisses her, and then whispers against her lips:

"Then fuck me."


End file.
